It's Like Smiling When The Firing Squad's Against Ya
by AsgardsValkyrie
Summary: AU of Supernatural where Sam is undisturbed at law school, Jess lives for a while longer, Dean's soul is dragged down to hell far earlier than it should have been, John Winchester is a piece of shit, and Bobby does his best.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 **Summary:** Alternate Universe of SPN where Sam is undisturbed at law school, Jess lives for a while longer, Dean's soul is dragged down to hell far earlier than it should have been, John Winchester is a piece of shit, and Bobby does his best.

 **Author's Note** : Also posted on AO3.

* * *

The darkness used to scare him, used to put him on edge and make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had been taught to fear what hid in the dark, to never underestimate them. Monsters, the man in his memories roared. Saving people? Hunting things? That's the family business! Now? He had become one with the darkness, unable to see where the darkness ended and where he began. Was he a monster now? Had he become what the man in his mind would have hated? And so what if he was! It was comforting, to know that he'd never really be alone, that he had a home where he was wanted. Appreciated. That was a sharp contrast from his life before, where he was abandoned by his own flesh and blood, left for dead and only cared about when it was convenient for others.

But he didn't have to worry about that now, not with his new family. The family that truly loved him.

He and his father stood in a room, his bedroom, something he'd never had on his own. Although it was dark, he could see his father clearly, as if he were bathed in light, a beacon for Dean, anchoring him to this realm.

"Go on," his father urged him, pressing a small device in his hand. That's strange. His hand. He hadn't had a body in so long, being back in his was exhilarating, as if he was experiencing everything for the very first time. Looking down, the cool metal was something he was familiar with. A cell phone. It's lid with flipped open, and a number was flashing on the screen. His father smiled at him, caressing his face. "You can do it, Dean. I know you can. It's for closure. You have to make sure, or else you'll never be fully invested in our cause."

And he could. He could do it. He _would_ do it. Not just for himself, but to make his father, his savior, proud. Pressing the call button, he lifted the phone to his ear, the canal filled with a low ringing. After what seemed like forever, someone answered.

 _"Who is this?"_

That voice. Dean knew that voice, spent years around that voice, knew what it sounded like before puberty had taken over. Sammy. No, not Sammy anymore. Sammy left him, left him behind even after everything Dean did for him. Just Sam. Stanford Sam. Lawyer bound Sam.

 _"Hello?"_ Sam sounded annoyed now.

"Sam?" Dean spoke, and then there was silence on both ends. Sam's breathing picked up, and the little boy that Dean had raised growled back, _"Don't ever call me again, Dean. We're done."_

The line went dead, and before he could stop himself, he crushed the phone in his hand, a snarl ripping from his chest.

His father looked at him sadly, "Didn't I tell you?" he purred. And he had. He had warned Dean, warned his son that Sam would never be grateful for everything that Dean sacrificed for him, would never so much as utter a half hearted thanks. Angry tears slid down Dean's cheeks, and his father pulled him close, running a hand through his tousled hair. "They never loved you, Dean, not like me. They hurt you so much, my boy." He lifted Dean's head. Dean's bottom lip quivered, and he just barely stopped himself from throwing his body back in his father's loving arms. "But that's why we need to do this. You understand, don't you?" Dean nodded. "People like that, people that toss their own family away...they don't deserve to experience paradise. They haven't earned it."

He smiled at Dean, and Dean felt warmth fill his chest. What did it matter if Sam didn't want him, or that John had abandoned him? Those two didn't deserve his time, his love, his loyalty. They hadn't earned it. His father pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and took a step back.

"Get some rest, son," his father said. "You have a big day tomorrow!" His father vanished, leaving Dean alone in the dark room.

For a few minutes, Dean stood in the dark and just breathed, got used to feeling his chest rise and fall with every puff of oxygen. The crushed phone was till in his hand, and he let it fall to the floor, fingers flexing and curling into loose fists before relaxing again. With a flick of his wrist, a sole candle sitting on the dresser became ablaze, casting a dim glow. A shimmer from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Turning, he walked towards the partially open closet and stood in front of it.

Looking in the mirror, he recognized himself and at the same time, he was a completely different person. The confident posture, the smirk on his full lips. Hair thicker and slightly longer, body thicker with muscles, and his eyes...his eyes were black.

* * *

Jess had called him on his personal phone while he was at the office, and he was immediately worried when he picked up. Jess and he had gotten married three years ago, and after their first child, a beautiful daughter named Emily, she recently found out that she was pregnant again. It was Sam's fear that she'd fall and get hurt while he wasn't there, and it had taken a lot of convincing for him to stop working from home and to stop nagging her every five minutes. It had gotten even worse when their friend, Brady, and his girl were found brutally murdered in their homes a year ago, their torsos slashed open and their organs out on display. The local law enforcement had been horrified and for a months, they had enforced a curfew and had upped security drastically. Although no crime as bloody as that one had happened again, it had still unsettled the residents of Palo Alto. However, she did call to give him updates, and while it did slightly soothe his worrying ways, he just couldn't help himself.

"Hey," he said, already standing to shuffle his papers and put them in his briefcase. "You okay?"

 _"Don't freak out,"_ Jessica begins, and Sam stiffens. _"But -"_

"What happened? Are you and Emily okay?" A million scenarios ran through his head, and it felt like he was going to have a seizure at the very thought of Jess and Emily sprawled across the floor, blood seeping from their bodies, the life in Jess's stomach snuffed out.

 _"We're fine,"_ Jess assured him. _"But...there's a guy named John Winchester asking for you. He says that he's your dad."_

Five years, almost six. It had been almost six years since he had seen his father, and for John Winchester to have the audacity to show his face after everything he said all those years ago...

This was one grudge that he couldn't let go of, couldn't forgive.

A quiet rage settled over him, and he quietly asked his wife, "Did you let him inside?"

"No," Jessica replied. "I told him that he had to wait outside. He's sitting in his car right now."

"What kind of car is it? An Impala?"

 _"No,"_ she said slowly, as if questioning his sanity. _"It's a big black truck. Should he have an Impala? Oh, my god, Sam, do you think he stole this truck?"_

"I don't know," Sam said. "Look, I'm coming back right now, okay? Keep the doors and windows locked, and don't let Em out of your sight. I'll be there soon."

* * *

John stepped out of his car once he saw Sam practically swerve into his driveway, and the second John got close, Sam's fist slammed against his father's jaw. John stumbled back, hand flying up to cradle the injured part of his face.

"Nice to see you too, Sammy," John grinned. "I'll give you that one," he said, referencing the hit. "But I won't hesitate next time."

"Next time," Sam sneered. "What the hell are you doing here? How the hell did you even know where I lived?"

"Do you really think I didn't keep tabs on you?"

"You've been stalking me!" Sam roared. "What a great way to show that you care!"

"You've been slacking," John growled back. "No salt lines, windows wide open. Honestly, Sam, that could be a shapeshifter instead of your wife in there!"

"Don't," Sam's voice got cold and quiet, "you dare." John scoffed. "You have no right to show up here."

"You didn't even invite me to the wedding," John grinned, and Sam thought he saw a flash of hurt in his father's eyes. "I got a granddaughter, huh? And another on the way."

Sam's hands twitched, eager to get reacquainted with his father's face, maybe even become best friends. Cutting off contact with John and Dean would be so they couldn't intrude and destroy his perfect life, couldn't take something else away from him. Speaking of Dean...

"Why aren't you driving the Impala?" Sam asked. "Where's Dean?"

John's face closed off, and his eyes darted to something behind Sam. He glanced behind him and saw Jess and Emily standing in the doorway, the phone in Jessica's hand very visibly ready to call 911. Sam ran a hand over his face. "It's okay, Jess," he called to her. "Just wait inside, I'll be there soon." She hesitated, before pulling Emily back into their house. He heard the door being locked behind her, and then saw her and Emily's heads peeking out from behind their curtains.

Sam turned back to his father, the urge to get physical leaving him with his family watching. Besides, he didn't want to make a habit of getting blood on his suits.

"Dean isn't here?" John said slowly.

Sam stared at him like he was crazy. "I haven't seen you or Dean in almost 6 years. Why would he be here?"

John swore and stepped back to angrily pace for a few steps. "When's the last time you spoke with Dean?"

"Six years ago."

 _"Six years ago?"_ John snapped. "You haven't talked to your brother in _six years_?!"

"The fact that you don't even know where your son is says that you haven't talked to him in a while either," Sam spat. "Dean is your son, your hunting partner. I figured he'd be too busy kissing your ass to wander off by himself."

John stepped forward and raised his hand, as if preparing to slap him. Sam stared down at him, ready for the worst. He was taller than his dad, and more in shape. If push came to shove, he could definitely take him out. John catches himself, no doubt because he realized that he had an audience. His hand lowers, and Sam's eyes narrow.

"Look," John begins. "I...I know that they way we left things wasn't ideal but -"

"You told me that if I left, then I need to stay gone. So I did. Seems like you're the only one who regrets that night." Sam's words send John careening back, as if the older man could not believe that Sam could so easily cut ties with him. Sam sighs heavily. "Look, I'm not...I'm not trying to be an asshole right now, but let's be honest dad. This is not the first time that you've left your kids behind and disappeared for a few weeks."

John opens his mouth to protest but Sam cuts him off.

"When it was just Dean and me, you would disappear for _weeks_ , dad, and you wouldn't answer your phone, even if it was an emergency. All I'm saying is that...maybe Dean's returning the favor."

John snarls, "Dean would never -"

"Disobey his commanding officer's orders?" Sam smirks when John glowers at him. "That's your problem, Dad! You treat us like soldiers instead of children; you always have. I got tired of that shit really fast. Maybe Dean did, too." John's jaw clenches so hard that Sam half expects his teeth to shatter under the pressure.

Sam's prepared to bid his father farewell and forget this ever happened when John says, "We gotta go look for him."

For a second, Sam thinks he's joking. He starts to laugh, so hard that tears gather in his eyes. John looks like he wants to wring Sam's neck, but wouldn't dare do such a thing in a public place.

"Dad," Sam says slowly, as if talking to an infant. "I'm not going anywhere to look for anyone."

John gapes at him for a brief moment before anger overtakes his features. "The hell do you mean you aren't going to go look for Dean?"

"I left," Sam said in a steady voice. "I left because of shit like this. I know it's probably breaking your heart to think that Dean isn't asking how high when you say jump, but there are two possibilities that you just aren't accepting. One, Dean fucked off to do what he wants for the first time in his life because he got tired of you pushing him around. Or two, some wendigo -."

John lunges forward and takes a handful of Sam's pressed suit, wrinkling the expensive material. Sam bares his teeth. "Don't you dare," John snarls, "imply that Dean would be so careless on a hunt."

"Is that your concern right now?" Sam demanded. "That Dean got careless, and not that Dean could be dead?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

Sam shoves his hand off and takes a step back. "How would I know that? How would Dean know that? All you've done was leave us in filthy hotels, with barely enough to eat, lugging us around from school to school. It's never been about us! We have never been your first priority, Dad, so don't act like you suddenly give a shit about either of our well beings!" He moves to take his briefcase and satchel out of the backseat, locking the doors behind him. Moving towards the door, he tells his father. "I'm not going to help you look for Dean because honestly, I don't care. That's not my responsibility anymore. I'm not the one that should have been looking out for him. I wanted out of hunting, so I got out. And I'm not going to jump back in just because you're a little twitchy over losing your best soldier. Get off my property or I'm calling the police."

With that, he turns his back on his father and heads inside, Jessica letting him in and locking the door behind him.

John stands in the driveway, staring at the closed door, watching the rustling of curtains as a curious Emily tried to catch another glimpse of him. Fists clenched and mouth tight, he stomps back to his truck and climbs in, revving the engine before peeling away from the curb and disappearing down the street. From the window, Sam watches him go, glad to seal that part of his life away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

At dinner that night, Emily's chatter filled the deafening silence as Jessica and Sam stared at each other, seeing who would break first. Jessica, having witnessed most of what happened outside, had demanded an explanation on John's presence, and Sam, unwilling to discuss his past, had refused to say a word on it. And so began the silent treatment, with Jess only speaking to Emily and acting as if Sam didn't exist until she decided to stare at him.

Sam slowly chewed his salad, the croutons crunching loudly in his head, his eyes never leaving Jessica's. Her nose wrinkled, showing her clear distatste, and she angrily sipped from her glass of water. Emily paused in her speech to look between her parents. Although she was just three years old, she had inherited her parents' keen eye for details, even if she had yet to understand what those details meant.

"Why aren't you two talking to each other?" she asked.

Jessica gave her a tight lipped smile. "Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about, "she said, gently bopping Emily on the noise. Emily giggled and pulled away from her mother's extended hand. "Why don't you go play with your toys?"

Emily, eager to get away from her uneaten green beans, darted away from the table without complaint and disappeared into the living room. The quiet air was soon filled with her faint laughter and clatter of plastic toys.

Sam took a deep breath and set down his fork, running his hands roughly over his face. His hands were pricked by the light stubble on his face. He raised his head to look as his wife, who stared unblinkingly back.

"Jess," Sam whispered. "Please. Can we _please_ just forget today ever happened?"

 _"Forget?"_ Jess hissed. "You want us to _forget_? How am I supposed to forget you nearly breaking your father's jaw?!"

"It's nothing less than what he deserves," he hissed back. "He's not important."

"Not important?" she said incredulously. "Your brother is missing!"

"How did you know that? Was the window open?" He hadn't wanted her to know what John was here for. If he had it his way, this entire day would be erased from history and he'd be able to go back to his normal life, a life away from hunting.

Jess leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "When he knocked on the door, he told me why he was here. I didn't tell you when I called because I thought you should hear it from him. It's clear now, though, that you don't even care!"

"That's not true!"

"Isn't it?" she demanded.

Sam clenched his jaw and looked away from her intense gaze. It wasn't that he didn't care about his brother. It was just...he got out. Dean wanted to be a hunter, and so whatever happened to him was what came with that job. It may be difficult for John to accept that he was down not just one, but two soldiers, but he'd have to deal with it. Sam wasn't going back, and fate probably caught up with Dean, the way it always did with hunters. Sam thought it was unreasonable for John to be surprised that Dean might be dead. After all, it's not like hunters lived to be eighty and died peacefully in their sleep.

"Jess," Sam said. "Dean made his choice to follow in my Dad's footsteps. He had multiple chances to leave that life behind, and he never took them, but maybe this time he did!"

"When's the last time you talked to your brother?"

Her eyes were accusing like John's had been, and it immediately put Sam on the defensive as he said, "Why does that even matter? Where is all this coming from, Jess?"

"This," she snapped, "is coming from me getting tired of the secrets, Sam!" Her eyes began to water. Sam reached across the table to grab her hand but she snatched it away. "I didn't even know you had a brother, and now I find out that he's missing and you don't even care! This is my first time seeing your father, and you're trying to make me forget that he was even here! I know next to nothing about your childhood, about your life before Stanford, and you're not willing to share anything too personal about yourself. I'm your _wife_ , Sam. You can't keep shutting me out."

Before Sam gets a chance to respond, Jess shoves away from the table and leaves the kitchen. Sam slumps in his chair, feeling drained. He looks over the mess on the table and knows without a doubt that Jess wasn't coming back to help clean up. Hell, he'd be lucky if she let him sleep in the bed tonight.

With a groan, he rose to his feet and began to clear the table.

* * *

Jess sat up in bed, flipping through a magazine. Sam had just tucked Emily in and had managed to successfully deflect her questions on the subject of her grandfather. Sam wasn't letting John anywhere near Emily; she'd end up being an alcoholic that knew how to shoot a gun. He was hoping that eventually Emily would lose interest and soon John would fade from her mind. While she had on occasion asked him about his side of the family, he had given her the impression that they were no longer around.

Sam stood in the doorway, twisting his fingers together. "Jess-"

"I'm not in the mood for excuses, Sam," she said, surprisingly calm. Her eyes never left the magazine, and the way she sat on the bed showed a clear divide. Sam wasn't getting cuddled tonight.

Her husband heaved a sigh and moved towards tech lost, shrugging out of his button down shirt and slacks, and pulling out exercise clothes. Sitting on the edge of the bed to lace up his sneakers, he told Jess, "I'm going for a run."

She did not respond. When he looked back at her, he saw that she was staring at him with a blank expression on her face. Her eyes were filled with a torrent of emotion, as if she couldn't decide how to process John's visit and the trouble he brought with him. Sam tore his eyes away from hers and without another word, he left, clomping down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind him.

Hopping down the steps and jogging to the end of the driveway, Sam paused. His stomach clenched, as if sensing a bad omen. He looked up and down the street. Nothing was out of place. Neighbors taking an evening stroll, people sitting quietly on their porches. What was he so worried about? As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, it felt as if the house was trying to pull him back, like it was telling him that he shouldn't leave. But Jess needed space, and maybe he did, too.

Forcing the thoughts out of his head, he began to run. Soon, the house disappeared behind him, and he was traveling through the winding streets and streetlights. The farther he got from the house, the worse the nausea became until he finally had to give into it and allow himself to rest. It was hard to tell if the sweat on his body was from his workout or from his stomach rolling. Hopefully it wasn't the stomach flu. And Sam knew it couldn't be food poisoning. He rarely ate mean, consuming mostly salads and fruit, determined to not revert back to his pre-Stanford days when he and Dean would inhale pizza and burgers.

Dean.

God, where was Dean? Sam thought as he sank onto a bench and looked up at the night sky. When John had asked how long ago it was since he had spoken with Dean, he had lied. It wasn't six years ago that he had last heard from Dean, because just laster year, a week or two before Brady was killed, Dean had called him. Sam remembered that day like it was yesterday.

 _Sam had just finished the last of his case work. He should be exhausted, but he had just consumed five cups of coffee and his veins were buzzing with the caffeine. What to do with himself now? Well, he could always get started on the other pile of paperwork, put himself ahead of the game. There was never any harm in being prepared. Just as he reopened his binder, there was a knock on the front door. He knew it wasn't Jess, since she and Emily had just left half an hour ago to go shopping; an activity prompted by Sam, as he'd been unable to concentrate with Emily running in and out of his study, shrieking as she played with her toys and imaginary friend. He grinned at the thought. He, too, had had an imagine friend when he was younger, and he knew that Emily would grow out of it soon. Jess was worried though that Emily's imaginary friend was keeping her from making new friends at daycare._

 _When Sam stood, he arched his back to stretch, letting out a moan as his muscles extended and his bones popped. Rolling his shoulders, he left his study and entered the main hall. Bending his knees a bit to see through the peephole, he opened the door with a grin. Brady leaned against the threshold, a smirk on his lips. The sun nearly blinded him, and Sam quickly raised a hand to block the bright rays._

 _"Long night?" he asked as Sam stepped to the side to let him in._

 _"Ugh," Sam groaned. "The longest. It might be another long night, too. I'm gonna get started on next week's work."  
_

 _"Dude," Brady protested. "You cannot keep sitting here doing work. The last time you went out and had a good time was when you married Jess!"_

 _"I'm just busy," Sam said defensively._

 _"No," Brady laughed. "You're a workaholic. Come on, man. Relax a little! I know being a lawyer is tough stuff, but how's Jess gonna handle that handful of yours if you work yourself into an early grave?" When Sam looked away, Brady frowned. "Hey, man, what's wrong?"_

 _He considered saying nothing, but confessed. "I've been having nightmares lately. About Jess dying. It just seems so real, so I've been working all night to stay awake, trying to make myself too tired to dream. I haven't-"_

 _"You haven't what?"_

 _"The last time I had these kinds of dreams about Jess were years ago, Brady. I don't know why they're coming back now. And they're so vivid, as if I'm seeing something that hasn't happened yet."_

 _Brady placed a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "You know those dreams aren't real, Sam. I get that you're worried, but you're too much of a worry wart to let Jess or Emily come to harm."_

 _Sam gave a tired smile and leaned against the wall. "Maybe you're right," he contended._

 _Brady whooped and playfully punched Sam on the arm. "Go take a shower. I'll wait down here and we can go out for lunch or something. Maybe catch a movie."_

 _"That sounds like fun," Sam admitted. Brady flopped down on the couch and watched Sam take the stairs two at a time. With Sam's back turned, Brady's eyes flashed black._

 _Upstairs, Sam was in the process of taking off his shirt when his eyes caught the little bag he kept hidden in the very back of the closet, under boxes of papers and old college stuff. Biting his lip, he tossed his shirt into the dirty clothes hamper and shimmied the bag out from its hiding spot. He unzipped it and his hand went inside, fingers searching for the smooth, cool surface of a flip phone._

 _He pulled it out and stared at it. It had been fully charged the last time he had used it, which was years ago. It had been off ever since. The rest of the bag was filled with books on lore, some ammunition, a small handgun, and an entire container of salt. Sam knew that continuing to keep this bag was him subconsciously acknowledging that dangerous life he used to life, and it made him angry that hunting still had such a hold over him, so much so that he had kept the materials and hadn't destroyed the phone._

 _ **Maybe this was the cause of the dreams!** Sam thought suddenly. His nightmares featured Jess and Emily, stuck to the ceiling as blood dripped from their bodies as the room burned to ashes around them. Maybe it was a consequence of him continuing to hold onto the past. He needed closure, and the only way to do that was to destroy the past, to prevent it from coming back to get him._

 _Sam pressed the on button, and the phone made a small chime as it came to life. Hundreds of missed calls and voicemails, primarily from Dean, the the occasional one from John. Sam was tempted to listen to them, but was scared that listening to Dean would trick him into coming back. Would trick him into giving up the life that he made for himself, free of salt lines and shotguns._

 _Just as he was about to toss the phone back in the bag, it started to ring. An unfamiliar number popped up. Hesitantly, Sam accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear._

 _"Who is this?"_

 _Silence. Sam rolled his eyes hard and asked, "Hello?"_

 _"Sam?" Dean's voice came through the phone. It was deeper, more graveled, but Sam would know his brother's voice anywhere. Sam froze, heart speeding up, breath coming in short pants._

 _He had to do this. He had to free himself of Dean._

 _"Don't ever call me again, Dean," Sam growled. "We're done."_

 _He snapped the phone shut and stared at it, daring Dean to call back. He didn't._

 _"Sam?" Brady called up the stairs. "What are you doing, man? I don't hear the shower going."_

 _"Sorry," Sam said, shoving the phone back in the bag and closing it. He made a note to himself to toss the bag when he came back from lunch. He wanted nothing more to do with it. "Had to take care of something."_

After that day, Sam hadn't heard from Dean again, and it had been a relief to have managed to successfully free himself of those tethers. Any guilt or remorse that he felt from that day had been shoved away. He refused to feel guilty about wanting something better for himself, for wanting a life without a shit father and a mindless clone of a brother.

Sam exhaled heavily, head beginning to twinge. He pressed cool fingertips to his eyes and willed away the pain. His stomach clenched again and he groaned, shoving himself to his feet. That was a sign that his run was over.

Something made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and Sam slowly turned towards the direction of his home.

In the distance, he could see a thick cloud of smoke and the orange blaze of a raging fire.

* * *

As soon as she heard the front door slam, Jess was out of bed. She had been hidden under the covers when Sam had come in, and so he had only see her in a baggy t-shirt, not knowing that she wore jeans underneath.

When Sam had been cleaning up downstairs in the kitchen, she had quietly made her way up the stairs and had packed a bag for her and Emily. She pulled both duffle bags out from under the bed. It had just enough clothes for a week or two, and if anything, they could always be washed. With shaky hands, she pulled off the baggy t-shirt and managed to fit a tank top over her swollen belly. She grabbed a hoodie and tossed it over her shoulder as she dragged both bags to the top of the stairs.

If Jess was being honest, her decision to leave wasn't something that she had decided that very day. It had been coming for a while. She loved Sam, she really did, but their relationship never seemed like it was real, because how could it be real when she realized that she barely knew anything about Sam? When she had told Sam that she was tired of the secrets, it wasn't just about him being tight lipped about John Winchester's visit. For years, whenever she asked him about his life before California, he always changed the subject or gave some vague story that was meant to get her off his case.

Her suspicions had only increased when she had slyly suggested they invite his side of the family to the wedding, and he had damn near lost his entire mind in his fit. She had backed off, terrified of his reaction, but a little after their wedding, when she had found out that she was pregnant, she had quietly asked if Emily would only have grandparents from her mother's side of the family. Sam had not responded.

She loved Sam, she really did, but she didn't know if she could sit in this house, waiting for Sam to trust her enough to tell her the truth. That wasn't what a healthy relationship looked like, and until Sam was ready, she would be staying with her mother. Her mom only lived about a half hour drive away, so she could still go to work, and her mom had agreed to watch Emily, eager to spend more time with her granddaughter.

Jessica entered Emily's bedroom and turned on the light, smiling sadly when her baby's face scrunched up a bit at the sudden disruption to her slumber. Her eyes opened sleepily and she blinked.

"Mommy?" Emily asked.

"Come on, sweetie," Jess whispered. "You and mommy are going on an adventure!"

"Adventure?" Emily said, voice picking up a bit. She allowed her mother to pick her up from the bed and place her on the floor, grabbing her hand and leading her out of the bedroom, turning the light off behind her. Emily noticed that her father was nowhere to be found. "What about Daddy?"

Jess crouched down and smoothed a hand over Emily's hair. "Daddy won't be coming this time. This adventure is just for girls." Jess blew a raspberry on her cheek. and Emily giggled, her little body trembling with excitement as she followed her mother down the stairs, Jess crying both duffle bas and dropped them at the entrance of the main hall. Just as she grabbed her car keys from the glass bowl she and Sam kept on a small brown table in the hallway, their was a heavy knock on the door.

Emily opened her mouth to ask who it was but Jess quickly placed a hand over her daughter's mouth. Sensing her mother's fear, Emily whimpered and reached out to grab a handful of Jess' tank top.

"Stay here and don't make a sound," Jess whispered to Emily, guiding her to hide behind the wall.

There was a box cutter in the glass bowl, too, and she quietly picked it up, creeping up to the door and looking out the peephole. A tall, broad shouldered man stood on her porch, the street light reflecting off of his black, leather jacket. As she stared at him, his head turned suddenly and stared at the door, his green eyes locking with hers. It felt as if he was staring straight at her. A slow, menacing smile spread across his face.

"Jess," the man sang. "I know you're in there."

She jerked back from the door, a hand over her mouth. Her eyes searched for Emily's, and found her daughter shaking as she peeked out from behind the wall. How did this man know her name? Although her plan was to leave Sam, she wished he was here right now. Jess looked out the peephole again. The man was gone.

A loud bang came from behind Jess, and she whipped around just as Emily ran to her. They stood, shaking against the wooden door, terrified tears sliding down Emily's cheeks. The slow, menacing steps of heavy boots on the wooden floor echoed through the house, and the man from the porch soon stood before her, a smile on his face. Jess let out a sob, eyes flicking to her cell phone that was next to the glass bowl on the table, several feet away.

"Please," Jess whispered. "Please don't hurt us."

"Oh, Jess," the man purred, fingers sliding over the dark blue paint of the walls. "It's so nice to meet you."

 _"Please,"_ She cried, clutching her daughter to her chest tightly.

"I'm not surprised Sam didn't tell you about me, "he said calmly, no longer advancing on them. He cocked his head to the side, and if they had been anywhere else, in any other situation, Jess would have admired how handsome he was. "It's not like it would matter anyways, though," he admitted. "After all, this was always going to be your fate. This time, though, it's just happening a little bit later."

Jess jerked her head back and forth, maneuvering Emily so that she stood behind her mother, shielded from the view of the intruder. Blood rushes through her veins as she tried to make an escape plan. Her car keys are in hand, but could she make it to her car with Emily before this man caught them? Could she make it to the neighbors house?

"Hi, sweetheart," the man's attention was suddenly directed Emily, who had moved her head to look out from behind her mother's leg. "I'm Dean."

Cold horror swept through Jessica's body, hands shaking as se held onto the box cutter, knuckles white. _Dean?_ Dean _Winchester_? The very same Dean she and Sam had been arguing about only hours before? But...Sam had said that Dean was missing. Sam hadn't spoken to Dean in years.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" Dean asked Emily.

"H-Hi," Emily whispered.

Dean grinned, white teeth sparkling. He locked eyes with Jessica again.

"Dean," Jessica said, voice shaking. Dean seemed delighted by her fear. "Sam...Sam said you were missing."

Dean's face grew dark and angry, and he growled. Jess gasped, pushing Emily behind her once more. "And how would Sam know this? It's not like he bothered to check in on me," he snapped.

"I'm sorry," Jess whispered. "I...I don't know, I swear. I didn't even know he had a brother until today."

He laughs darkly.

"Sam and Dad always had that in common. Them and their secrets. It's what brought me here, you know," he said, almost conversationally, as if he hadn't just broken into her house. "To be honest with you, you're out of my brother's league. You should have stayed away."

Jess started to cry again as she begged, "Please don't hurt us."

Dean was in front of her now, a calloused hand cupping her cheek, looking down at her swollen stomach sadly. His other hand played with a strange of Emily's blonde hair. He sighed.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he confessed. "But I'm not that one calling the shots here." Jess sobbed. Dean pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Don't worry. It'll be quick, I promise."

His hands closed around Jess and Emily's throats, eyes black. They screamed and kicked, but he dragged them both up the stairs into the master bedroom. Emily's body shook, her mind unable to process why her Uncle was hurting her and mommy. In the bedroom stood another man, this one older with yellow eyes. Jess and Emily were tossed onto the bed, Jess immediately wrapping her arms around her daughter and pressing Emily's face into her chest.

"Good job, Dean," the older man complimented. Dean preened. "You know what to do." Dean vanished from the room, and Jess could hear him downstairs, destroying her house. This man turned back to face her, a serene smile on his face.

"i've waited a long time for this," he said. "The original plan was to kill you years ago, before you and Sam ever got married, but something better came along. Dean was abandoned, you know. Even after sacrificing his happiness for Sam and John all the time, he was never appreciated. Sam left, never so much as uttering a thank you, and John, well, I'm sure you saw today that he was never that great of a parent to begin with. And Dean, well, he was practically gift wrapped for me!" The man laughed. "He was lost, lonely, desperate for love. And I gave it to him. Together, we're going to rebuild the world." He smiled down at Emily, her little shoulders shaking as she gasped for air. "It is such a shame that you won't be able to see it."

With a flick of his wrists, Jess and Emily were separated, both on opposite of the bedroom, pressed against the wall, their stomach being slowly split open. They screamed in agony. They were slowly dragged up to the ceiling by an invisible force. The man allowed Jess to take Emily's hand one last time before the flames started.

* * *

Sam's head and stomach ached as he hauled ass back to his house. The closer he got to the house, the worse the feeling got, as if it was punishing him for listening earlier. He prayed to every higher power that the fire he saw didn't belong to his house. He knew it was wrong to wish that tragedy on someone else, but he just couldn't handle it if Jess and Emily were in danger when he wasn't there to protect them. Even though he was running as fast as he could, nearly knocking over other citizens, it felt as if he wasn't making any progress, like the distance kept extending and he'd be trapped forever in this endless tunnel.

Lungs burning, he skidded to a stop outside of his house. It was ablaze, the glass windows shattering from the pressure of the heat, roof already beginning to cave in. Neighbors stood outside, frantically calling 911. Hands tried to hold him back, but he shoved them away, running inside, the door mysteriously unlocked.

"Jess!" he roared, chocking as the smoke filled his lungs. "Em!"

The kitchen, living room, and his study were filled with roaring flames, the deadly inferno having already filled the downstairs area and now destroying the stairs and everything beyond it.

The ceiling started to crack above him, and he darted up the stairs, nearly tripping over two black lumps, his mind flashing back to the dreams. Oh, god, the dreams. The master bedroom was open, and he lifted his shirt to cover his mouth. Looking up in horror, his body shut down from the shock of seeing his pregnant wife and three year old daughter stuck on the ceiling, bleeding from deep gashes in their stomachs, and staring down at him unblinkingly.

He started to scream.

Hands came from behind him and began to tug him back from the room, trying to drag him down the stairs. He fought back, trying in vain to reach his family, unable to hear anything over the sound of his own screams. No matter how hard he kicked and punched, whoever had grabbed him had managed to get him out the front door, the last thing Sam seeing before he was yanked outside being the stairs collapsing.

Sam landed on the lawn, chest heaving with rasping, smoke filled sobs. The loud screech of sirens filled the street, and firefighters rushed past him. There were hands on him, urging him to get up, voices pleading with him to talk to them, but all he could do was cry, unable to tell if the agony his body was experiencing was from the smoke he inhaled, his loss, or a painful combination of both. Rough hands jerked him upwards, and his vision filled with the sight of his father.

"Sammy," John begged. "Sammy, we gotta get you checked out with the paramedics, okay?"

Sam stared blankly back at him before his eyes shifted slightly to the left and were locked on the sight of his house falling apart, taking his life with it. He did nothing as his father and another man who he distantly recalled as his next door neighbor brought him to his feet, taking him away from the fire. Sam's body hung limply in their grasp.

He was brought to an ambulance, their questions falling on deaf ears as they examined him. John had to maneuver his body upon their request, as Sam sat stock still, as if his body was stuck between panicking and shutting down completely. John was in front of him now, talking. Sam could see his mouth moving, but was unable to take in and process whatever he was saying. It felt like his senses were slowly fading, like his body was trying to distance itself from the horrific scene he had just witnessed.

The paramedics gently pushed Sam back onto the gurney and began to lift him inside the truck. That's when he began to panic. They couldn't take him away, he wouldn't let them. He lashed out, fist breaking the nose of the women who was trying to strap him in. She cried out as blood spurted from her face and her back collided with the wall of medical supplies. John and another man grabbed his arms and legs, forcing him down.

John's eyes filled with pain as Sam began to scream again.

The woman used her clean hand to give a sedative to the other paramedic. With Sam being held down, he wrapped a piece of cloth around his right arm. Locating a vein, he pressed the needle inside. The fight began to leave Sam immediately. His movement became sluggish, and his vision was now distorted.

In his last moment of clarity, he looked over his father's shoulder, and down the street, he could have sworn he saw a man standing next to a gleaming black impala.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

With a groan, Bobby pushed himself into a sitting position on the couch, his phone blaring at him from his desk across the room. He'd fallen asleep last night, having pulled yet another all nighter, finding information for the hunters on on the field. A bottle of beer lay discarded on the floor, a small puddle of the brown liquid underneath it, staining the dusty rug. Bobby eased himself up for the couch and stretched, rolling his neck and shoulders. Carefully making his way through the pile of books stacked on the floor, he grabs the cell phone and stares at the caller ID, hoping for one name in particular.

Dean Winchester.

The name brought a frown to Bobby's face. Dean had been missing for...for longer than he should have been. Years ago, Bobby had gotten a distressed call from Dean, the calling having disconnected before he could get a location out of the boy. Since then, Bobby's been using every resource he had to find him, quietly asking hunters to keep an eye out, ask around and see what anyone had seen or heard. Even though it had almost been six years since Dean went missing, he still hadn't let up on the search. A few hunters were displeased with his continued belief that Dean was still alive after all this time, but they hadn't refused to help Bobby; after all, Bobby helped them all the time without asking for anything in return.

In the six years that Dean had been gone, the only thing left of him was the Impala, which Bobby had stumbled across five and a half years ago in the woods of Lawerence, Kansas while on a hunt with Rufus. The car was a mess. The windows were shattered, glass littering the seats; the seats themselves torn to shreds, as if a bear had gotten its paws on them. The trunk was the only part untouched besides for a few dents in the car. Dean's weapons were all there, even his favorite gun, abandoned. Rufus had helped him bring the car back to Sioux Falls, both of them too afraid to ask the question that was burning holes in their minds.

Why had Dean been in Lawerence, Kansas?

The Winchesters hadn't been back there since Mary's death, John unable to handle the painful memories, Dean blocking out the pain, and Sam too young to even remember his mother. Even when there were hunts in the area, John had never been able to bring himself there, unable to make himself cross into the city lines.

Rufus had tried to convince Bobby to call John and alert him of what they found, but Bobby had been adamant in his refusal. He knew John Winchester. That son of a bitch would never give up the hunt for the yellow eyed demon, not even if his son's life was on the line. He'd stop at nothing. Ever since Mary's death, John's existence had become one of constant obsession and hatred. All he cared about now was getting revenge. And, with the way that John was, it wouldn't surprise Bobby if he found some way to place the blame on Dean for his disappearance, or even death.

And so, Dean's disappearance remained a well kept secret, even after the Impala mysteriously vanished one night a few months ago. And, Bobby had reasoned, if John actually gave a shit about his son, he would have noticed that Dean was missing within the first few weeks of it happened. It had been almost six years now. Clearly, Dean's life fell on Bobby's shoulders. Not that he minded.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he looked at the unknown number on the phone. He answered with a gruff hello, crossing his fingers, hoping Dean's voice would filter through.

 _"Bobby?"_ John Winchester said gravely into the phone.

A slow, creeping rage filled Bobby's body. He and John had not spoken in...Christ, how long had it been? The boys had been kids then. A decade or so? There had been a disagreement over John's parenting style, and John was incredibly defensive about his love for his sons, even though literal minutes before the fight, John had nearly wrung Dean's neck for not running laps and instead choosing to play catch with Bobby. "Why the hell are you calling me?"

 _"This ain't the time, Bobby,"_ John said urgently, voice dropping lower. _"I need your help."_

"Just like you needed my help all those years ago, watching those boys so you could go off and throw yourself into danger on a wild goose chase?" Bobby sneered. He heard John take in a breath, but he plowed on before the other man could get a word in. "It's always the same shit with you, Winchester, every god damn time. It's always about you, and your have cocked plans for revenge on a monster that you can't even catch. Always abandoning your kids, always taking, taking, taking, but never able to give anything to anybody other than disappointment and regret."

Immediately on the defensive, John snaps, _"You think you could do better than me? You don't even have any kids!"_

"I might as well!" Bobby roared. "All the time I spent, watching those boys, taking care of them, you spent unraveling all my work, trying your damnedest to turn them into soldiers, people you can control and dispose of when they no longer were useful to you." Unable to stop the next sentence from coming out, he demanded, "Do you even know where your sons are? If they're even alive? Or do they no longer serve a purpose for you?"

The moment that followed was filled with the sound of Bobby's breathing, his breath coming in angry pants. John did not respond for a long time, and then there was a click, signifying the end of the call.

"Good riddance," Bobby murmured, tossing the phone no the couch and picking up a book.

He had work to do.

* * *

A faint beeping noise drew Sam out of his deep slumber, his face scrunching up at the disruption. His eyelids felt ike they were glued together, and as they fluttered in an attempt to pry themselves open, he mumbled, "Jess, turn the alarm off."

The beeping continued, and a new sound entered the fold, this one being a rustle of clothing, followed by a rough hand on his arm. Sam jumped, finally managing to pry his eyes open, vision slowly focusing on his father, who looked like he had spent the night in that ridiculously hard hospital chair. Wait...hospital chair? Sam's head turned, taking in his surroundings. The scratchy sheets against his skin, the being of the monitor, the IV in his arms, and the straps around his wrists and ankles, securing him to the bed. The monitor began to beep faster as he recalled what happened before he was forced to go to sleep.

"Sammy," John whispered, voice breaking as he watched his son break down for the second time in less than twenty four hours. Tears spilled out of Sam's eyes, and he began to sob brokenly. John. in an incredibly rare moment of affection, wrapped his son in a hug. Sam clung to him as best as he could without the use of his arms, feeling as if his very soul had been ripped from his body.

"Sammy," John repeated, pulling back a bit. "Sammy, I need to know what happened."

Sam shook his head back and forth, unable to make the words come out. He didn't want to say it, was tired of the image circling around and around in his head, like something straight from a horror movie. Only it wasn't. It was his life. And he had dreamed about it, had known, deep know, that it would happen, and he still did nothing! It was his fault they were dead. The thought brought on a new round of hysterics. John didn't push him anymore, instead wrapping a hand around his younger son's wrist, his touch an anchor that would keep Sam on Earth and not disappear too much into his head.

The fight had left Sam. As much as he hated being tied down, he did not struggle against the bonds. What was the point? What was the point of anything anymore? How could he move on from this? His body sagged against the mattress, exhausted. His sobs slowly quieted, and the tears were nothing but an occasional trickle out of the corner of his eyes.

John said, "I know...I know you don't want to talk about it right now. But people want to talk to you. They need to know what happened. Can you do that?"

John watched his son struggle with an internal battle. He had asked himself that very same question many years ago, looking in the mirror, asking himself if he was ready to talk to the police about what happened, if he was ready to rip that wound open even more. He knew that Sam would never fully recover from this experience, seeing as how he himself was still suffering over Mary's death. Seeing the one you love on the ceiling, dead eyes staring down at you...it changes a man.

"Where's the Impala?" Sam asked suddenly, eyes sharp and focused intensely on his father. John noticed that Sam had avoided the subject of talking to the police.

"Missing, just like Dean."

"I saw it last night."

John stared at him. "What?"

"I saw the Impala last night."

"Sam," John said slowly. "The Impala is no where near Palo Alto. Last night was -."

"I know what I saw!" Sam's voice was borderline a yell, a weird look in his eye. "The Impala was on my street last night and there was a guy standing next to it, okay? I know what I saw. I saw it. I swear I saw it." Sam's voice broke at the end, and he crumpled in on himself once more, mouth shutting with an audible click. John sighed and pressed the button that would call the nurse.

A few minutes later, the nurse strode in, a police officer standing outside the door, waiting to come in.

"How are you feeling, Samuel?" The nurse asked. "Any nausea, dizziness, drowsiness?"

"I'm fine," Sam said.

"You're not fine."

"You're right," Sam sneered. "I'd be a lot better if you didn't have me tied down like an animal!"

"Last night you attacked the paramedics, and earlier this morning, you lashed out again. Now, whether those were purposeful acts of violence or shock induced, it does not change the face that you have proven yourself to be a danger to yourself and those around you. We will take the restraints off once we are absolutely certain that you break anyone else's nose."

With a barely restrained growl, Sam looked away, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw began to twinge.

The nurse checked his vitals, the cuffs around his limbs, and once she gave the all clear, the police officer stepped into the room. He and the nurse talked quietly for a moment before she stepped out, closing the door behind her. The officer pulled up another plastic chair besides Sam's bed.

"Mr. Winchester," the officer begins. "My name is Jeffrey Morgan. I'd like to offer you my condolences."

"Thank you," Sam said quietly. "Are you here to ask me what happened?"

"Yes, if you're up for it," Officer Morgan replied. "If at any time you want to stop, if you fee like you're getting stressed, you just say the word. May I start?" Sam nodded, and Morgan asked, "Where were you when the house caught fire?"

"I had gone out for a run," Sam murmured.

"How far did you run?"

"I don't remember," Sam sighed. "I usually run the expanse of the neighborhood, but that night my stomach and head were hurting a lot, so I stopped to rest in the park. That's when I..."

"That's when you what?"

"It felt like the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up," Sam whispered. "And I turned around, and I saw the fire and smoke. And I ran back, and I just kept hoping that it wasn't my house."

Morgan wrote in his notepad, nodding his head. He paused for a moment before looking up at Sam again. The man seemed exhausted, as if last night's events had drained his very soul of energy and left him as an empty shell of a person. Officer Morgan didn't think that Sam would do anything to hurt his family, but he couldn't rule anything out until he was absolutely sure. But that didn't mean that he didn't have any other leads after speaking to the neighbors, firefighters, and Jessica's family over the phone.

"Sam," Morgan said gently. "Were you aware that Jessica was going to leave you?"

Sam reeled back as if he'd been slapped, and John's fist clenched from where it was resting on the railing of the bed. Sam's face paled before flushing in anger. _"How dare you-"_

"Sam," Morgan interjected. "Jessica's mother told us herself that Jessica was planning to leave you that night and take Emily. The fire response team also found two bags in the house filled with clothes and money. Jessica's car keys were also on the floor by the front door."

A new pain ripped through Sam's chest. The officer looked at him in pity. "No," Sam whispered. "Jess...why would she?"

His heart rate began to speed up to dangerous levels, and he began to fight against the restraints. Officer Morgan attempted to calm him down but to no avail. The nurse and a few others hurried in at the sound of Sam's monitor beeping wildly and they ushered John and Officer Morgan out of the room. The last night John saw before they closed the door was Sam throwing his head back and screaming into the air.

* * *

After managing to ditch Officer Morgan, John had slipped out of the hospital and slipped into his truck, heading back to Sam's house. Or, what remained of it. He parked his car across the street from Sam's house, staring at the charred remains. There, it was easy to forget that any time had passed; it felt like it was the night of Mary's death all over again.

John had wanted his relationship with Sam to be better, but Jesus, this was not something he wanted them to bond over. Two men losing everything to a demon with a vendetta.

Shaking his head, John stepped out of his truck and was prepared to head across the street to investigate the house when a faint whispered call caught his attention. He turned his head, and to his right, a girl, about sixteen years old, was peering at him from over the white picket fence. He took a hesitant step forward. "Yes?" he asked.

"I," the girl looked threw a glance over John's shoulder, and he followed her gaze to the burnt house. "We can't talk out here. Follow me."

John paused, watching her dash to the garage and open the door. She waved frantically at him to come, but warning bells were blaring in his head. Casually looking around, he allowed himself to move forward, following her. She closed the door behind him and turned on a tiny desk lamp that rested on a rickety table. Her blonde hair shimmered, and John watched as she plugged a camera into a laptop and scrolled through the files.

"What is this?" John asked. "And who are you?"

"I'm Lacy," she responded. "I'm not supposed to know this, but I've been listening to the firefighters and cops talking. The said that the fire wasn't a gas leak like they expected. Someone started it." She clicked on a video file and made it full screen on her computer. She moved over a bit so John could see. "I was practicing my cheer routine out on the front lawn yesterday for hours, and I didn't think anything of what I saw on the footage, not until after the fire."

She pressed play. For a while, it was just her flipping around and waving her pompoms around, chanting cheer after cheering, a typical cheerleader smile on her face. The sound of her cheers were soon drowned out, though, when the familiar roaring of an engine blared through the speakers. Lacy's mouth moved, her arms still striking poses, paying no mind to the shiny, 67' Chevy Impala that passed behind her. John's heart raced and he almost knocked Lacy over as his hand flew out to press down on the mousepad, slowing the video down and rewinding it.

John leaned in close, and as the Impala rolled by, the person driving it turned to face the camera. John nearly slammed the pause button, eyes wide, unable to breath as Dean's face stared back at him.

"Do you know him?" Lacy asked. "I've seen him around before."

"What?" John's head spun to face her. "What did you just say?"

"I've seen him before," she said. "He's been around this neighborhood a few times, he never stops or talks to anyone, he'll just drive through or just walk." She eased John's hands away from the laptop and skipped ahead in the video. "That car drove by Mr. Winchester's house a few times during the day, but it isn't until later that things get...weird." She pressed play.

The scene now was darker, like the sun was setting and the streetlights were beginning to come on. Sam's car was parked in front of one of the garage doors, the other vacant. John assumed that Jess's car had been on the inside. On the lawn, Lacy was still practicing her routine, occasionally stopping to take sips of water and do stretches. As she worked herself down into a split, shadows moved behind the curtains of Sam's house, those shadows being Jessica and Sam in the kitchen.

A man then sauntered into the frame, his leather jacket gleaming. He took his sweet old time getting close to the house, staring at the tall shadow that could only be Sam. He stood there for what seemed like forever, never moving, absolutely still. Suddenly, he turned and Dean's face once again appeared on screen. Dean went back the way he came, leaving the camera's range. Lacy skipped the video forward again and this time she wasn't in the shot. She stopped when Sam locked the door behind him, running gear on as he made his way down the driveway. As Sam paused at the end of the driveway, a strange look on his face, Dean seemingly appeared on the side of the house, leaning against the wall and waiting until Sam disappeared down the street before he took the stairs two at a time to knock on the front door.

Dean there was for only a moment before he took off around the house. A faint banging noise filtered through, and just a few minutes later, John could hear the muffled screams of Jessica and Emily Moore.

"I had accidentally left my camera on the ledge of my porch, and it was still recording when I went out t get it. After the fire happened, I watched it, and I tried to tell the police that it was a hit," Lacy said, not nothing John's distress. "But they told me that it was disrespectful to joke about what happened to the Winchester family. I even tried to show them the video but my mom told them that I was a troublemaker. But I know what I saw! You believe me, don't you?"

"Yeah," John's voice was unsteady as he replied. "I believe you." The video continued, and John could see that Lacy was right. The fire was impossible to classify as a gas leak, especially since the first flames happened upstairs in what John now knew to be the master bedroom. "Can I have this video?"

"Sure," Lacy said. "Just...don't tell my mom I gave it to you."

Lacy unplugged the camera and pressed it into his hand. John let himself out of her garage, Lacy trailing after him. Climbing into his truck, he made sure Lacy made it inside her house before pulling off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

It was eerily quiet in the salvage yard that night, the moon casting a dim glow over the old house, reflecting off the cleaner parts of the windows. Dean walked forward, the slow crunch of gravel breaking through the silence. Being back at Bobby's was a weird feeling. The last time he was here, was months ago, when he came to pick up his Baby. He'd been pleased to see that Bobby had taken good care of the Impala, the dents out of the sides and the shattered windows replaced. Bobby had even managed to fix the tears in the seat, had it looking as good as new.

Making his way up the creaky wooden stairs, Dean jimmied the doorknob, upset to find it unlocked. That wasn't like Bobby to be so careless. It was dark inside, the interior of the house as much of a mess as the outside. The backdoor led into the kitchen, and even in the dark Dean could see that the sink was filled with dirty dishes, the counters covered in a thin layer of dust and grime. His nose wrinkled in disgust. In the past, when he was younger, the house had always been cluttered and a bit dusty because of all the old books, but it had gotten this bad.

Dean shook his head. He wasn't here to reminisce about the past, about what could have been... In fact, he wasn't supposed to be here at all. He was given specific orders not to get close to the people from his old life, but when Dean had come to get the Impala, it took him a few days to realize that his favorite gun was not in anywhere in the car. Knowing Bobby, the old man had kept it somewhere in the house, too nostalgic to let it go and sit out in the yard and rust along with everything else. And although Dean said he was there just for the gun, he also wanted to see Bobby, even if the man didn't know he was there.

While in hell, the demons would take pleasure in reminding him that his own father and brother had yet to even notice that he wasn't topside anymore, their screeching voices and ugly faces sneering at him as they told him that only Bobby - "that old drunk" - was looking for him.

Although his new father had asked what had kept Dean so strong, strong enough to survive the rack for so long, Dean had always given some bullshit answer, never letting him know that the real reason he withstood the torture for so long was because of his love for Bobby, his desire to make the man proud. Bobby was bad with emotions, threw back more beers than he should have, but unlike John, Bobby had always been there for him, always a phone call away, always trying to get him a choice that didn't involve fucking around with things that went bump in the night. In the end, Bobby was all he had left of his old life that he was willing to acknowledge. Anything and anyone else was irrelevant.

Dean had been debating on whether or not to bring the older man up to his father. He knew that the world would go to shit soon, and Dean wanted to cash in a reward, that reward being Bobby, alive, untouched by the demons that would very soon be clawing their way out from hell and into the world of the living.

A grunt drew Dean out of his musings, and he quickly closed the back door, stepping into the shadows of the living room. A flickering lamp on a small table near the couch was the only light the room had aside from the thin lines of light from the pale moon, and with the small amount, Dean could see Bobby sprawled out on the couch, his neck in a position that Dean knew from experience was most definitely not comfortable. A half empty beer glass hung limply in one of Bobby's hands, the bottle tilted and slowly dripping onto the dusty, scuffed floors.

He frowned at the sight of someone he had viewed as a father. Unsure, Dean bounced on the balls of his feet before making his decision. He prayed that Bobby was out cold as he shimmied his arms under the man's body, carrying him bridal style. He made his way of the stairs as quietly as he could, careful not to hit Bobby's head against the wall. He pushed open the bedroom door with his boot and laid Bobby in the bed, prying his shoes off and turning him on his stomach so that he wouldn't choke on his vomit if he happened to throw up in the middle of the night. Bobby gave another grunt, face scrunching up.

Jesus, it was like as Dean stepped further into the house, the more it looked like a tornado had paid a visit. Even the bedroom floor was covered with books, and at a glance, Dean could see that quite a few were about the lore of various supernatural creatures.

Fuck, Dean thought. He thought that after hell, he was done with this emotional human bullshit. It had been great to kill without have a guilty conscience, to feel no remorse for anything ever. But when it came to Bobby...

With a growl, Dean shuffled through the books on the floor until he found one that looked promising. He flipped through it, stopping when he came across a page about reapers. He angrily recalled how he had ended up in hell without even making a crossroads deal. He laid the book out on the nightstand, reaching up to take the amulet off his neck. He hadn't wanted to keep the thing, but his father had insisted that it might come in handy when he had to step up and fulfill his role to manipulate Sam. Now, however, he found a much better use for it. Deciding to throw Bobby a bone, Dean placed the strings of the necklace in the pages of the book and closed it, the golden amulet hanging out of the bottom.

Throwing a blanket over Bobby, Dean decided to just forget the gun.

He left the same way he came, making sure to lock the door behind him.

* * *

Sam stared angrily at his father, his tall form almost menacing as he stood in the parking lot of the hospital. He had finally been released, and after the police had finished their round of questioning, he was free to go. Being outside of the hospital only made it much more real that he had funerals to plan, people to contact. It made his heart clench painfully. His dad wasn't making it any better.

"Are you telling me that I should just skip town?" Sam demanded.

"I know you want to say goodbye," John said. "But -."

"There is no _but_ ," Sam snapped. "What, did you think that just because they d-died," Sam swallowed audibly, "that I'd just jump back into hunting? I'm not you, Dad. I got out of that life."

"And yet, here we are." John's intense gaze made Sam look away, jaw clenched. John sighed. "At least take some time off, take a vacation, just...don't go back to that house and make the pain even worse." Although John was itching to get on the road to hunt down the yellow eyed demon, he was trying to be understanding and patient with his youngest son. Bobby's words had struck deep, and without Dean here, John was painfully reminded of how little Sam had suffered over the years, always being shielded by his big brother's protective arms.

Sam didn't think he could take a vacation. A vacation meant time alone with his thoughts, and time alone with his thoughts could end disastrously. Going back to work would provide him with a purpose, with a distraction. And yet, as he thought of sitting in his office, or talking in court rooms, it felt wrong. Jess and Emily's death was just a reminder that no matter how hard he tried to get out of hunting, he would never truly escape. He was tied into the world of the supernatural, never able to truly leave and lead a different, less dangerous life. He had believed that California, far away from his father, Dean, and even Kansas, would allow him to ignore his past, to put that part of his life way behind him, something to be forgotten and erased from history. But obviously, that wasn't an option for him.

Looking up at his dad, Sam wondered if he had tried to go back to normal after Mary, if he tried to forget what he saw that night and continue on. If he'd tried to find them a new house, give Dean and him a life other than hunting, if he'd ever made that effort. He wanted to ask, but the answer he might receive wasn't something that he was ready for.

As much as he wanted to erase his wife and child's burning bodies from his mind, he knew that no matter how far he went, the supernatural would find him again. It seems like it always did. Why waste time and money running, constantly looking over his shoulder, when he could end it for good?

"Just," Sam exhaled heavily, pressing his eyes closed tightly. "Just let me give them a funeral, let me say goodbye. And then we can go hunt that bastard down."

* * *

While Sam was making the arrangements for the funeral with the Moore family, John decided to step out for a bit. Deep down, he knew he should have been there for Sam during the process, been there to ground him and prevent another breakdown, but he couldn't stand being cooped up in a room with people that were lucky enough to never know about what goes bump in the night.

The day was cool and gloomy, a perfect reflection of the mood in Palo Alto. After the Winchester Tragedy - as quite a few people were calling it - a lot of people came together to try and help Sam rebuild what was left of his life, unaware that as soon as this was over, Sam would never be seen by them again. They had tried to salvage what they could from the fire, even bringing Sam casseroles and words of comfort, but Sam became a completely different person almost overnight. No longer was his face alight with a smile, no longer were his words kind and encouraging. Something inside of him hardened, and while John was secretly glad that Sam was sliding back into this life like he had never even left, it made something break inside him just a bit to see Sam running on nothing but a wink of sleep and a heart full of rage.

John huffed, rubbing his cold hands together, hunching his shoulders up to try and shield his ears from the wind.

Looking around, John never thought that he'd be in Palo Alto like this. Although John had occasionally swung by California to check on Sam, that was only if a hunt was in the area, and he had never stopped to talk to the boy, only making sure he was alive before moving on to the next hunt. After the night Sam left...John didn't think they'd ever speak again, and honestly, in what he thought to be Sam's opinion, even that would still be too soon. John had never told Sam, but he was proud of him for getting a full ride to Stanford. He had bragged about it to as many people as he could, gloating about his smart boy. Every time he opened his mouth to talk about Sam's scholarship, Dean would look at him with that face, and God, the look in his eye made John uncomfortable.

John let himself flop onto a cold bench. What Bobby had said...John hadn't wanted to admit it then, but it had taken him a while to notice that Dean was missing. He was ashamed to say that it took him years. It was common for he and Dean to go there separate ways when hunting; after all, Dean was a grown ass man now, and he didn't need to be babysat for every little hunt. And so John would go off, calling Dean whenever he had a case to throw his way or to make sure he was still alive. John struggled to remember a time when he didn't call Dean about a hunt, if he'd ever called to even say happy birthday.

When Dean hadn't picked up in a while, he hadn't even registered that Dean could be hurt. He just figured that Dean was off on yet another tantrum about John not being there, and at one point, John had assumed that Dean was with Bobby; Lord knows how much Dean loved it in that house, watching Bobby work on the cars. And with Dean off and out of the way, it gave John more time to focus on the yellow eyed demon, to try and uncover the sinister plot that was no doubt slowly playing out, if Jess and Emily's death were any indication. It hadn't even occurred to him that Dean was missing until he'd realized that the hunts he sent Dean weren't completed.

And, oh boy, at first he'd been ready to tear Dean a new one! People had been dying, monsters going unchecked and terrorizing the townsfolk, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. In a rage, John had called Dean, prepared to ream him out, only for each number he tried to go to be disconnected. Tracking Dean proved pointless, as the Impala had basically dropped off the map, taking Dean with it. Even the credits he'd tried to trace brought up nothing.

But even then, John didn't let himself panic. Sometimes his sons did that; sometimes they fucked off because they needed their space and didn't think it imperative to let someone know. After all, Sam did the same thing at Flagstaff, maybe this time it was Dean's turn.

But weeks flew by, and Dean still didn't turn up.

Coming to Sam was a last resort. And also selfish. He wanted Sam to come back to hunting, wanted Sam under his close eye. It was foolish to let Sam run off to college, especially when he knew damn well that the yellow eyed demon had his sights set on him. He hadn't yet figured out what the piece of shit was planning, but he knew that it couldn't be good. Nothing in the life of a Winchester ever was.

John dug in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he pulled up Bobby's contact information. Their last conversation hadn't gone too well, but Bobby had extensive knowledge and experience, and he could help speed up the process of both finding Dean and ganking that yellow eyed son of a bitch.

Calling Bobby would probably be useless; the man could just ignore the call. John stuffed the phone back in his pocket. After Sam finished up in Palo Alto, they'd head to Sioux Falls and drop in. Bobby would be less likely to turn them away if they showed up on his doorstep, especially once he heard what Sam's recently been through.

Steeling himself for yet another painful stroll down memory lane, John pushed himself to his feet and headed back inside the funeral home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

 _Sam awoke with a groan, stretching his arms above his head, feeling his muscles extend and wake up. Pushing himself up not a sitting position, he detangled his legs from a blanket that had been thrown over him. Ugh, falling asleep on the couch was a bad idea. His back was already started to twinge from spending hours on the firm surface. The cases that he was working on last night were neatly sitting on the coffee table, his briefcase leaning against it. Pressing his eyes tightly together before opening them again, Sam noticed that the house was oddly quiet._

 _Glancing at the clock, the time said that it was eight in the morning. Huh, that explained it. Jess had probably taken Emily to daycare and then gone to work, and she had put a blanket on Sam and had left quietly so they wouldn't disturb him. Jess was always saying that he worked too hard. He didn't have to be at work until ten, and the office was close by, so he could afford to take his time this morning._

 _Heading into the kitchen with the intention of making a pot of coffee, he was halfway through getting the beans ready when he noticed someone standing on his front lawn. Sam stopped, slowly setting the glass down on the counter. Walking forward, he pulled the curtain a little wider, making just enough space so that he could glance out. A man with a leather jacket stood in his grass, but he couldn't see the man's face. The man wasn't moving, and even though Sam couldn't see his face, from the way he was standing, he could assume that the guy was staring very intently at something. Huffing, Sam jerked the curtain closed and strode to the front door, yanking it open and intending to ask the man to leave. But.._

 _Sam's head jerked back and forth. What the hell? The guy was gone. He took a step out onto the porch, craning his neck to look up and down the street. This neighborhood was usually bustling at this time of the morning, people leaving to go to work, kids catching the bus to go to school. It was as if time had stopped on his street. Cars were running but did not move, people frozen mid step on the sidewalk, mouths open and frozen in the middle of sentences. Directly across the street, Lacy, who had waved hello to him every morning as he went to work and she to school, was standing in front of her house on the sidewalk, one hand curled around the strap of her book bag, the other twitching. Dread began to stir in his stomach._

 _Closing the door behind him, Sam made his way slowly down the stairs. As he got closer to the edge of the property, he could see that jets of the water from sprinklers were floating in mid air, as was the grass that had just been cut by lawnmowers._

 _"Lacy," Sam called. "Lacy, are you okay?"_

 _Lacy's chest began to heave, as if she were gasping for breath after running a marathon. Sam jogged across the street, concerned for his younger neighbor."Lacy," he repeated. "Lacy, what's wrong?"_

 _She did not respond. At once, every person's head on the street whipped to look at a car coming from down the road. The familiar rumble of an engine made Sam turn, standing side by side with Lacy. The Impala, the car he'd spent a huge chunk of his life in, rolled down the street. Sam opened his mouth to call out to the man driving the car, but it was too late, already turning the corner and disappearing behind a row of houses. And then, it was back to driving up the street. Only faster this time. Sam's body became immobile, as if he were being suspended in the air._

 _As the Impala sped by faster, faster, faster each time, the clouds and sun moving with it, he and the others' heads whipped back and forth to watch it come and go, heads spinning so fast that Sam got whiplash, pain shooting up from the base of his neck to his skull. Just as Sam thought his neck would be jerked once more, his body became his own again, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his head as pain split through his skull._

 _"Sam."_

 _Lacy looked down at him, horror in her eyes. Everyone else on the street had cleared. It was just the two of them now, standing in the dark, a lone street lamp casting an eery glow over a small part of the street. Lacy was no longer in her school clothes, instead in sweatpants and a t-shirt, a small camera in her hand._

 _"Sam," Lacy repeated, raising a hand to point across the street towards his house. "Who's that?"_

 _Forcing himself to focus and shove the pain away, Sam hefted himself up to one knee, following her finger. On his porch stood the man from earlier. The man, carefully angling his face away from the porch light, seemed to stare right at Sam before a grin spread across his face, and then suddenly the man was sprinting to the side of Sam's house._

 _Terrified, Sam yelled at Lacy, "Go inside!", as he hauled ass across the street and around the house to the side door, which had been kicked open. Inside, he could hear Jess and Emily sobbing. When had they gotten home? As Sam tried to go through the threshold, the door slammed shut, hitting him in the face and knocking him on his ass._

 _Dazed, Sam spat blood out of his mouth and stumbled to his feet, banging on the door, screaming, "Jess! JESS!"_

 _A horrified scream pierced through his ears, and Sam threw his body at the door, trying to break it down. As he took a step back to go in for the second time, hands grabbed him from behind._

Sam jerked awake with a scream dying on his lips, his father staring down at him. John pulled Sam close as he gasped for air, eyes wet with unshed tears.

"You're okay, Sam," John told him. "You're okay."

Sam did not reply, trying to get his breathing under control. That nightmare...it had felt so real. It wasn't like his mind playing tricks on him. It was almost as if...he were remembering something. But that was impossible, wasn't it? What he'd dreamt...that had never happened. Sam took a deep breath, his face still buried in his father's chest. His mind was just trying to work through the trauma, that's all. Nightmares weren't unusual, especially not after seeing what he saw, so he shouldn't be too surprised when they happened.

"I'm fine," Sam said, pushing away from John, getting out of bed. One look at the clock told him he only had an hour and a half before he was supposed to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Moore to discuss the funeral arrangements. "We need to get going soon."

"Sam," John stopped him, grabbing his arm. "What did you dream about?"

"Just a nightmare," Sam said dismissively, shrugging his hand off. "I expected it, after..."

"That seemed like more than a nightmare, Sam," John pointed out. "I've never heard you scream like that in your sleep."

"Maybe if you had spent more time with me as a kid you'd know that nightmares were a regular occurrence," Sam replied snidely. John recoiled. Satisfied that he wouldn't be disturbed anymore, Sam strode into the bathroom and locked the door, taking a deep breath and staring at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a tangled mess. Facial hair was starting to grow thicker as well, taking advantage of his low motivation. Reaching a hand up, Sam massaged the bone at the base of his skull.

He still felt faint twinges of pain in his neck.

* * *

Sunlight filtered in through the filthy window, and even those weak rays that got through made Bobby's head twinge painfully as he began to wake up, body sluggish and confused after a long night of drinking. Bobby let out a low moan, his bones creaking as he pushed himself up on one arm and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He should't have knocked back so many beers last night, but after yet another round of unsuccessful research, he'd allowed himself to pass out on the couch.

But how had he gotten up here? There's no way he managed to make it up the stairs unharmed after a night like that, not when his grief for Dean had overwhelmed him.

With a heavy sigh, Bobby was about to push himself off from the bed when he saw it, the thick book sitting on the nightstand. Or, more specifically, what was hanging out of the book. The amulet.

He snatched the book up and grasped it in his hands, turning it this way and that. He had given he amulet to Sam when he was younger because the boy was worried about his dad when he went on hunts. The amulet was supposed to provide protection. When John had brushed it aside, Sam and bestowed it upon Dean, who had worn in proudly every day. And so, if Dean was the only one who had it...

How had it ended up here?

Bobby's heart began to race and, ignoring the headache, lumbered down the stairs, book in hand. He scoured the house, looking for any other sign that Dean had been there. Nothing had changed. The dishes were still piled up in the sink, the floors still dusty, old books still sprawled across tables and windowsills. All Dean had left him was the amulet. Bobby sank onto the couch, fingering the necklace.

If Dean had been here last night, that meant that he'd been the one to carry him up the stairs. Although Bobby was happy to have this piece of Dean, a lead, he didn't understand how he'd gotten in the house last night. He was pretty sure he'd locked all the doors, and he'd never been one to give out spare keys to his home. It made Bobby's stomach turn to think that just anyone could have walked into his home last night just because he decided to be drunk and reckless. With another sweep through the house, he found the salt lines undisturbed and the devil's trap above the front door in perfect shape.

Bobby reentered the living room, staring at the book he'd placed on the coffee table. He wanted to open it, wanted to scour its pages and find whatever Dean was trying to tell him. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. What if he didn't like what he found? What if he was hit with another dead end? He didn't think he could take any more failures, not after years of never seeming to be on the right track.

Opening that book would mean making a final decision on Dean's fate, and Bobby didn't know if he could handle it if Dean was dead, didn't know if he'd bounce back from that loss. Although he and Rufus had found the Impala in awful shape, there was a chance, albeit a very small one, that Dean was alive out there. Somewhere.

Grabbing the book, the title reading _"Angels, Demons, and the Creatures Between"_ , he tucked it into a duffle bag he had stowed under the desk in the corner, careful not to remove the amulet. In that same desk, in the second drawer under the false bottom, Bobby pulled out Dean's gun, making sure the safety was on before sliding it in the bag as well.

Bobby knew he had to finish this, get answers one way or another. Although he might not like what he found, he knew that he'd never be able to sleep at night if he was constantly left without answers, left wondering what on Earth happened to Dean Winchester. He stomped throughout he house packing, throwing clothes, guns, a laptop and its charger, and several books into bags before hefting them out to his truck, placing them in the trunk.

Pulling out his phone, he dialed Rufus. It went straight to voicemail. Into the receiver, Bobby said, "Rufus, I'm going off the grid for a while, got to take care of some things. I..," he cleared his throat. "I know it's been six years, but I think I have a lead on Dean. It might be nothing, but, Rufus, I gotta make sure. I need to know. Tell anyone that's looking for me that I'll be back soon, they'll just have to make due without me for now. I'll call you soon."

Shutting the phone off and stuffing it in the glove compartment, Bobby climbed into his truck, casting one last look at his home before speeding away from his salvage yard.

"Hang on, Dean," Bobby whispered. "I'm coming for you."

* * *

Sam was unable to give the funeral director his full attention. The dream from earlier was still fresh in his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to push it behind him, it kept popping up, that mean in the leather jacket smiling at him, only his shining white teeth visible in the dark. He knew he shouldn't be entertaining the idea that this dream could have been real, but something about it made his stomach clench, made his head twinge, as if his body was trying to tell him to turn back now, that he didn't want to get involved.

Quietly excusing himself, he left Mr. and Mrs. Moore to pick out the coffins, telling them he felt nauseous and that he'd like to be alone. They smiled sadly at him and let him go, watching his lumbering form stumble out of the room, the door shutting with a click behind him.

He shuffled his way out of a side door, ending up in the alley next to the funeral home. Pressing his back against the wall, he allowed himself a few moments of silence before sliding down to sit, knees bunched up against his chest. A hand went to his head and grasped his hair, remembering that he'd promised Jess that he'd cut it. A wave a grief hit him, and now he really did feel nauseous.

"Jesus," Sam hissed. How had it come to this? How had his life been turned upside in just a few days? When he'd gotten out of hunting and had gone to Stanford, and even after he married Jess, there was a part of him that was always looking over his shoulder, expecting Dean or his dad to come crashing back into his life, bringing with them a trial of bodies and stolen credit cards. He figured that it would be a growing process; as in, one day Dean would show up asking for help, and Sam would be guilted into it, and he would continue to be guilted into helping out on hunts until one day the supernatural caught up with him. He never thought that in the span of mere hours he'd see his father again andlose his wife and child. It was as if the universe realized that she hadn't screwed him over for quite some time and decided to throw years worth of trauma and pain into one sitting.

He briefly entertained the idea of karma; maybe he was getting his just desserts for abandoning his first family. If Dean died because Sam wasn't there to protect him, then karma took Jessica and Emily as a consequence. But that was ridiculous! Sam got out of that life for that exact reason: avoiding an early grave. Besides, there's no way that whatever happened to Jess and Emily were connected to Dean.

Pressing his palms to his eyes hard, he willed his brain to shut up for just a few second, to stop with the wild theories. He didn't need that right now.

"Sam?"

Mrs. Moore poked her head out the side door.

"Hey, Mrs. Moore," Sam said, voice hoarse.

"You know, I've told you a thousand times to call me Elizabeth," she said with a small smile, stepping out into the alley. Sam pushed himself up to his feet. She reached a hand out and grabbed his, squeezing it tightly. "I know this has been a difficult time for you," she continued. "But I think that I should give you some answers."

Sam, in his grief and after the panic of that nightmare, had forgotten the reason Jess and Emily had been leaving that night. He just can't believe that she was actually going to leave him.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to hear it right now," Sam said.

"I know it's difficult for you to process," she pushed on, looking up at Sam with sad eyes. She had lost her daughter, too. Sam winced. he hadn't even asked her how she was doing, too caught up in his own head. "But Jess did love you, Sam." He looked away, but her manicured hand gently guided his face to look at hers. "She called me, asking if she and Emily could stay for an indefinite amount of time. I told her of course, but why? And she told me that you were keeping secrets, Sam. And at first I thought, that boy better not be running around with some other woman!"

Sam gaped at her, heat rushing to his cheeks.

She rushed to defuse the situation, "I know you aren't like that, Sam. You would never do that to Jess. But what was I supposed to think when she told me that?" She shook her head. "She said that your father had come and that the two of you were hiding something, something involving your missing brother?" Mrs. Moore sighed. "I know it's none of my business, but I'd like to know why Jess was so riled up. At the very least, I am due an explanation."

"I know," Sam whispered. "I know I haven't even asked you or Mr. Moore how you were doing, and that's really selfish of me. I'm just so caught up in my own head that I forgot about everyone else. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have even showered if my dad wasn't nagging me about it." He guided Mrs. Moore inside so that they were standing in the pristine hallway instead of the shady alley. "My family...I don't know how to describe it, there just aren't the words, but I left for a reason. My mom died when I was six months old, and apparently my dad used to be some great guy, but ever since then..."

Mrs. Moore frowned, concern shining behind her eyes.

Sam continued, "He claims he raised us the best that he could, but he and I both know that is a lie. We - my brother and I - grew up in filthy motel rooms, eating nothing but fast food and candy, and we never stayed at one school for a whole school year. I hated that life, and I grew to resent him and Dean for not being more understanding. So when I got the scholarship to Stanford, I didn't tell them until the day I left."

"Why not? Wasn't Mr. Winchester proud of you?"

"Please!" Sam scoffed. "He was raving mad! Went off on a rant about how I wasted his hard earned money taking the entrance exams and applying. He told me that if I went to Stanford, that I was no longer part of the family. And honestly, it hurt at the time. But looking back on it, I'm glad he kicked me out. I didn't need him. I never did. He and Dean were holding me back, and until they showed up, my life was perfect. And then I find out that my brother Dean has been missing for years, and then Jess and Emily die, and it just seems like the entirety of my world just shattered in the span of two days and I'm trying really hard to keep it together."

"Oh, Sam," she whispered, pulling him into a hug. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"I was ashamed," he admitted. "All of my friends came from financially stable families with parents who wanted what was best for them, that cared about them, and I didn't have that, and I didn't want to be reminded of the crap childhood I had. It didn't seem important at that point. I was enjoying life away from the Winchesters, living it up with my full ride to Stanford and an amazing girlfriend. I had no reason to look back."

"And now?" she asked. "What are you going to do?"

Sam looked away. "I," he paused. "I know a lot has happened, but I can't be in Palo Alto right now. Every second I spend here is another second I'm trying to stop myself from splitting apart at the seams, and I know I'm running away, but I don't know how to move past this. I don't know if I can." He let out a bitter laugh. "My entire life was in that house, Mrs. Moore. My wife, my daughter, my unborn child. Everything that mattered to me is gone, and sometimes I wake up expecting to see Jess, and I remember that she isn't here anymore, and every step I take around this town is just another miserable trip down memory lane. And I don't even know what I feel!" He drew away from her to pace. "I'm in pain, I know that, but there's something else burning inside me, like I'm ten seconds away from exploding. But it isn't just anger, it's something quiet, too. There are times where my entire body just wants to shut down and never move again. And I know I have to be strong, but I don't know how to do that."

They were quiet for a long time. Mrs. Moore stared at him, watching his shoulders tremble, as if his body was forcing itself to stop feeling grief, to remain an immovable force. When she had gotten the news that Jess, Emily, and the baby had perished in the fire, she had collapsed onto her husband, her mind trying to process what was happening, trying to figure out what to do from there. Even now, standing in the funeral home, just doors down from where her husband is picking the coffins, it still doesn't seem real, like any moment Jess will pop out and say, "Gotcha!"

But Jess is gone. And so is Emily. Mrs. Moore understood that Sam would need time, and she was willing to give it to him. She worried, though, that him going off with his father - who he just described to be a not so good person - would cause even more destruction to his life. Jess had told her a lot about Sam, about how he didn't go out a lot to parities or school events because his head was always in a book, always studying, always inhaling information. Jess had been pleased when Sam had worked up the courage to ask her out. They'd been together ever since, and Mrs. Moore had been happy that Jess had found a nice boy to settle down with, certainly a step up from past boyfriends who couldn't even get their shit together enough to graduate, much less a job. She knew that letting Sam go off with John without a fight would come back to bite her in the ass, she could feel it deep down, but from the look in his eyes, she could see that he couldn't be stopped.

He felt trapped in Palo Alto, living in a place where he'd watched his family perish. He would get out eventually, and he'd never forgive her if she attempted to hold him hostage there.

"Sam," she murmured, intertwining her fingers with his. He looked up at her, his long hair brushing against his jaw and his face unshaven. "I will miss you, and I hope that one day soon we will see each other again. But," she reached up to brush a lock of hair behind his ear, smiling sadly at him, "if you need to go, then you can. Daniel and I will take care of the funeral. You can come say your goodbyes later if you're not ready for that now."

"Mrs. Moore," he breathed.

"I don't understand what you and your father are up to, I don't know where you are going. But I need you to promise me something."

When he nodded, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a little gold locket, handing it to him. Opening it, he saw that there were two slots for a picture, and in one there was a picture of him and Jess at the beach, Sam looking down at her with clear affection. Tears sprung to his eyes.

"Jess had this made a few weeks ago," Mrs. Moore whispered. "She and I went to an appointment for an ultrasound. It was a girl."

Sam let out a sob, the necklace cool and so tiny in his hands. Mrs. Moore closed his fingers around the locket and pushed it towards him.

"I need you to promise me that no matter where you go, no matter what you do, you don't lose yourself. Grief is a powerful thing, and it can turn you into a person you won't recognize. I need you to remember who you are. Don't ever stop being that boy that Jess fell in love with. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded, unable to stop the tears streaming down his face. She quickly pulled him in for a hug before ushering him towards the door once more. "You have my number. Call me if you need anything, and I mean anything. Don't just drop off the face of the Earth. I expect a phone call."

"Thank you," he whispered.

He left then, and she watched him go, a single tear sliding down her cheek as her last link to Jess disappeared out of her life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

* * *

John glanced over at his son, who was passed out in the passenger seat. He had been sitting in a coffee shop a few blocks away from the funeral home when Sam had called him, saying that he was ready to go. When John had pressed for the details of the funeral, Sam was elusive as ever, instead ushering him in his truck and demanding that they get on the road. The only stop they had to make was to get John's bags from the motel. Sam's things were all destroyed in the fire, and he hadn't put up too much of a fuss at having to wear his father's clothes, which consisted of a seemingly endless supply of flannels. Within minutes on the road, Sam's body sagged, his eyes drooping closed, and in seconds he was out cold, head leaning against the window.

Honestly, John didn't know what to do. Sam had always been the more sensitive of the Winchesters, but John didn't know how to be comforting, especially when he and Sam but heads so often. Although he and Sam had experienced very similar situations at the hands of the YED, they were still polar opposites, and while John was content compartmentalizing everything, Sam exploded in a flood of emotions if he kept anything in for too long. Usually it was Dean who -

He broke off on that train of thought, trying to push down the guilt. He hadn't told Sam, but he hadn't seen Dean in a long time, and it had only occurred to him to look for his oldest son when he wanted to give someone orders. When Dean hadn't picked up his phone or taken care of the hunts he'd been sent, John had been livid. And when he discovered that Sam hadn't even seen or talked to Dean in six years, he was tempted to shake the kid until some common sense got knocked into his head. He didn't know how to explain that to Sam in a way that didn't make him gear up for another fight.

Yet another thing he needed Dean for.

Dean was always the defuser of the fights between he and Sam, and it was nice to have someone around to do the things that John himself didn't have time for, like taking care of Sam. Without Dean around, he and Sam would have to keep themselves together long enough to hunt down the yellow eyed demon and not wring each other's necks. With Dean gone, snide comments and side eye would become a regular occurrence, and they couldn't afford rifts right now, not with the YED on the loose, having claimed yet another loved one of a Winchester.

Right now, Dean would have to be put on the back burner. John would still look, ask some of his contacts to keep an eye out, but the YED was his priority right now.

Sam stirred in his sleep, drawing John out of his thoughts. Sam's arm moved, fingers curling over something in his fist, part of a gold chain hanging from his fingers. Yet another thing Sam hadn't told him; whatever happened in the funeral home had clearly shaken him to his core, and he'd been adamant on not discussing it, claiming they had more important things to worry about. John knew he'd have to weasel it out of Sam eventually; he didn't need the kid to have yet another episode of hysteria in the middle of a case.

The road ahead was long, all John could see being the endless stretch of asphalt and trees. The highway was nearly empty, with the occasional car driving by. He was going at least seventy, just a bit above the speed limit but hopefully not enough to alert any cops that may be lurking around. He wanted to get to Bobby's fast, and Sam was in no shape to drive, so he'd have to keep himself awake the whole trip. Pulling over to rest at a motel would only delay their arrival to Sioux Falls, and besides, they could sleep when they got to Bobby's.

* * *

 _A knock on the door jerked Sam out of his slumber. He rubbed his eyes and huffed, his breath brushing a piece of his hair off of his face. The knock came again. Craning his neck, he saw that the clock read 9:32 PM. He sat up in bed and turned to ask Jess if she'd heard that noise, when he noticed that her side of the bed was empty. Aside from the knocking on the door downstairs, the rest of the house was silent._

 _Sam slipped out of bed, bare feet padding on the wooden floors of the hallway. Jess had probably taken the trash out and had accidentally locked herself out. Sam had told her a million times that it wasn't safe to do that at night, but she was stubborn and often ignored his advice. Casting a quick glance into Emily's room, he paused, one hand on the banister. Emily's room was empty, her Disney princess blanket thrown carelessly across the banisters._

 _Uneasy, Sam made his way down the stairs. The knocking had stopped, and he called out to Jess._

 _Turning the corner into the hallway that led to the front door, he froze. Jess stood at the front door, looking out the peephole, holding a box cutter in her hand tightly. Emily hid behind the wall, peeking out._

 _Sam opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing, but his body wouldn't obey his commands. His mouth formed the words, but sound did not come out. When he tried to move to get Emily, his body remained in its place._

 _"Jess," a voice sang from outside the door. Bile rose in Sam's throat. "I know you're in there."_

 _Jess spun to look at Emily, who was quivering from her hiding place. She looked out the peephole again. A loud bang came from behind Sam, and he fought to make his body obey. Jess whipped around, Emily running into her arm, on the verge of tears. Sam could only watch in dismay as his wife and child clutched each other, shaking against the wooden door. Slow, menacing footsteps echoed through the house, and Jess' face erupted in pure horror at whoever stood behind Sam._

 _He could feel the presence behind him, and it made his stomach jerk violently. Whoever it was Jess was looking at gave off the aura of pure evil, as if he'd come straight from hell to bring terror to Earth's inhabitants. The person walked forward, right through Sam, as if he wasn't even there. Even with just the view of the man's back, he knew immediately that this man was familiar. He'd seen him somewhere before...but where?_

 _"Please," Jess whispered. "Please don't hurt us."_

 _"Oh, Jess," the man purred, his calloused fingers sliding over the dark blue paint of the walls, his voice echoing inside Sam's head. "It's so nice to meet you."_

 _"Please," she cried, clutching Emily to her chest tightly. Tears streamed down Sam's face as he realized he could do nothing but watch._

 _"I'm not surprised Sam didn't tell you about me," the man said calmly, no longer advancing on them. He cocked his head to the side. "It's not like it would matter anyways, though," he admitted. "After all, this was always going to be your fate. This time, though, it's just happening a little bit later."_

 _What did that mean? Sam wanted to scream, wanted to know the answers to every question that continued to pop up._

 _Jess' head jerked back and forth, maneuvering Emily so that she stood behind her mother, shielded from the view of the intruder._

 _"Hi, sweetheart," the man's attention was suddenly directed to Emily, who had moved her head to look out from behind her mother's leg. "I'm -."_

 _The man stopped, body turning slightly towards where Sam stood, his face angled down so that Sam couldn't see his face. Jess and Emily's bodies disappeared, and Sam was left in the hallway with the stranger, confusion and terror coursing through his veins, making his heart pound._

 _"Who are you?" Sam demanded, his voice returned. His body felt weak, but he found that he could move again. Striding forward, he grasped the man's shoulder, determined to whirl him around, only for the man to shove Sam to the side hard, sending him flying into the kitchen, crashing into the table. It broke under the impact, the pieces clattering loudly on the floor and against the kitchen counters._

 _Sam was grabbed from behind, held up off the ground by his neck, gasping for air. He clawed at the hand around his throat, eyes watering. The man murmured in his ear, in that voice that for some reason sounded like home, "I always knew you were a little bitch."_

A gush of water made Sam choke as he came to, spluttering and gasping for breath. His entire upper body was soaked, his hair matted to his head and his shirt giving off the impression that he'd just dunked himself in a body of water. John clutched a jug of water, standing at the passenger side door with it open, staring at Sam as if he'd gone insane.

Shaking, Sam clambered out of the truck and pushed past his father, holding onto the side of the truck to keep himself from collapsing.

"Sam," John said. "Sam, what the hell was that? And don't you dare tell me it was just a nightmare."

Sinking into a crouch, Sam let his head fall into his hands, trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. It felt like he'd just run a marathon; his heart pounding and his muscles sore. He hadn't expected that nightmare, didn't think he'd continue to -

He didn't want to think about it now, would prefer not to speak about it ever, but John was standing in front of him demanding answers, and Sam didn't want to risk getting sent back to Palo Alto because he couldn't keep his shit together for one little car ride. But how could he explain this to his father in a way that wouldn't get him tied up and prepped for an exorcism? How could he tell his father that he got visions, and that ever since the one about Jess' death came true, he's been terrified that his mind is trying to tell him something, trying to send him a message? And if his dreams true, then it wasn't just about him, either. It involved Mr. and Mrs. Moore, who deserved to know what really happened to their daughter. And that raised another set of problems, because how could he explain to them that Jess had been murdered before the fire when not even the police had determined the cause of death yet?

"I don't know what's happening," Sam whispered. "I just need some quiet right now, okay?"

John stood there for a moment longer before gruffly replying, "I'm going to go get some food."

Looking up, Sam realized that they had pulled over into rest stop, a few motels up the street, and a gas station connected to a convenience store just a few yards away, where his father was walking towards. His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in what seemed like forever, but he wasn't sure he could keep the food down, but what he was sure of was that John would not be pleased if he vomited in his truck. Hell, he'd damn near lost his entire mind when he threw up in the Impala.

Sam moved himself to a sitting position, his back pressed against the dirty tire of the car. The sky was gray and cloudy, the air cool. The calm before the storm. Something was coming, Sam could feel it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out what it was, wasn't sure he would be able to handle it.

From his spot on the ground, he could see his father moving around in the store, his head disappearing and reappearing as he entered and exited aisles, probably grabbing anything that looked good to stock up. With an annoyed huff, Sam pathetically got to his feet, knowing that he'd have to go into the store and pick out his own food because the day John put down the burgers and beers and instead ate a salad and drank water would be the day pigs learned how to fly.

His feet dragged as he walked into the store, and from the look the cashier was giving him, he was sure he looked like a mess, shirt soaked, face dirty and unshaven. He probably looked like he was ten seconds from robbing the joint. Sam made sure to keep his hands out of his pockets so it wouldn't look like he was hiding a gun as he walked around the store. Spotting a refrigerator with salads, he grabbed four big ones before moving on to the water. Juggling the salads in one arm, he managed to wrap his fingers around two gallon jugs of water. The Mountain Dew was tempting, but he needed to be alert, not hysterical from being awake for several days straight. He'd figure out a way to handle the nightmares. He just had to tackle his problems one at a time.

"Finally decided to get off your ass I see," John muttered as they met at the register, tossing their things on the counter.

Sam glared. "Finally decided to stop pretending you care I see."

"Now listen here -."

"I'll be in the car." Sam stormed out of the store and strode to the truck, not in the mood for arguing. In the past, butting heads with his father had been an inevitable occurrence, but now, he got drained too quickly to keep up with it. He was angry and then ten seconds later it was gone, leaving him numb on the inside.

Movement in his peripheral vision made him turn and he was greeted with the sight of a familiar blue 1968 Ford F-350. He hadn't laid eyes on that truck since he was just a kid, waiting around for his dad to come back from whatever shit he was out hunting. The truck's driver had a baseball cap on and a scruffy beard, and Sam watched as he pulled up to a gas tank.

Although Sam hadn't seen the man in years, hell, a decade, he knew without a doubt that the man currently pumping gas into his car was Bobby Singer, supernatural research expert, the go to man for all things that go bump in the night. He began to open his mouth to call out to him, only to quickly shut it. Would it be appropriate for him to say hello? After all, he hadn't spoken to the man in years, and although when he was young and had the excuse of obeying his father's orders to cut off contact, as an adult and capable of making his own decisions, he could have at least let the older man know that he was okay. Bobby had always been kind to him and Dean, and Sam distinctly remembered Bobby's letting them be normal children, and not order them to run laps like John had.

John's presence at his side nearly scared him shitless, and before he could direct his father's attention elsewhere, John spotted Bobby as well.

"Dad, wait," Sam pleaded, grasping at his father's jacket. John brushed him off, shoving the plastic bags into Sam's hands and walking towards Bobby.

"Bobby!" John called out.

Bobby froze, turning to the call of his name, the tension in his body palpable. His eyes narrowed and he began to move swiftly, closing the gas tank of his truck and placing the nozzle back in its place, hurrying around to the drivers seat. John, having picked up his speed, Sam on his heels, beat him there, placing a hand on the door to prevent Bobby from getting in and driving away.

"What the hell do you want, Winchester?" Bobby growled. "Get out of my way."

"Sam and I were just coming to see you," John said, grabbing Sam's arm and damn near yanking him forward, presenting him.

Bobby's widened when he caught a wind of Sam, the man looking donned in plaid once more. Apparently the Stanford life hadn't stuck. Sam was no doubt aware of how awful he looked, but as an outsider looking in, Sam looked like the entirety of his soul had been ripped from his body, dragged through the more horrific torture possible, and then throw carelessly back into his body. Sam's skin was pale, his lips dry, hair still as long as ever but also looking an awful lot like a birds nest.

"You expect me to believe that this is Sam?" Bobby scoffed. "Stanford Sam?"

"A lot has happened, Bobby," John said. "If you would just -"

"I don't have time to hear more of the typical Winchester bullshit," Bobby snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse m-".

"The demon got Sam's family, Bobby," John hissed.

Sam did his absolute best not to crumple in on himself, but apparently his face did nothing to hide his emotions, because with just one look at him, the tension leaked out of Bobby's body and his eyes widened.

"Shit," Bobby whispered. _"Shit."_ The three men stood in silence for a brief moment, letting Bobby process the bomb they'd just dropped on him. "How long ago?"

Sam quietly answered, "Just a few days ago," his voice cracking. He looked away, hugging a plastic bag of food to his chest like it were a lifeline.

Bobby looked between Sam and John, unsure of how to feel. He felt bad for turning John away now, because now it was obvious that when John had called a few days prior, it had been because that yellow eyed bastard had once again fucked up the life of a Winchester. On the other hand, he wanted to rage at John for bringing Sam back into hunting so soon. Bobby knew for a fact without even having to ask that Sam wouldn't be going to the funeral, and he needed that closure, couldn't live if he continued to hold on to that anger and sadness. Well, he could live, but it would be a miserable life, filled with dark rooms and a lot of alcohol.

John cleared his throat and said, "We were coming to see you, hoping you could help us track the YED down, let us crash for a few days."

Bobby noticed that neither Winchester mentioned anything about Dean, and it made his ire grow. Well, if they weren't going to say anything, he didn't see any reason to either. "You mean you were hoping that showing up on my doorstep with this latest victim would make me let my guard down enough for you to eat my food, drink my beer, and use my books?"

"Um," was John's ever so eloquent reply.

Bobby shook his head. "The house is locked up and warded, and I won't be going back there unless I absolutely have to. You're gonna have to find someone else to mooch off of." He glanced at Sam. "Hey, kid, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Bobby," Sam said quietly. "Just...if you hear anything about the demon...will you let us know?"

"I'll call you," Bobby promises. John steps to the side, allowing Bobby to open the door and hoist himself into his truck. Sam and John begin to walk away, and, in a moment of weakness, Bobby calls out, "Hey!" When they turn back around, he grumbles, "If you need any help with research, give me a call. I can send some stuff your way."

John nods, silently grateful, and he and Sam stand side by side, watching Bobby drive away.

* * *

"Are you sure it's a good idea to trust Dean to take care of the youngest Winchester?" Meg asked her father.

They had met up outside of a small diner in the middle of Windom, Minnesota. To any regular person, the town would be irrelevant, just another insignificant dot on the map of countless other cities. They stood off to the side, out of the view of the cameras.

"I trust him," he replied, a grin on his face. "Boy, when I told Dean, he just about blew a fuse, was ready to go on a rampage."

Hell, even before he'd told Dean, he was still stunned that John Winchester managed to make yet another son after royally fucking up with the first two. And oh, wasn't that just amazing? John Winchester, taking the little blonde haired boy to baseball games and throwing him birthday parties, but damn near ripping Dean's head off when he protesting having to drop out of high school. Really, John was just making it too easy for him.

"And you managed to reign him in?"

"Don't I always?"

"You finished up in Palo Alto quickly," Meg observed. "I'm guessing Dean turned out better than you had hoped?"

Her father smiled serenely, leaning against a rustling bicycle rack. Dean had been under his tutelage for centuries, and within just the first few days, he was already surpassing the standards, becoming a ruthless son of a bitch, eager to please his savior. When Dean had first been dragged to hell, he was prepared to kill whoever fucked up his plans. And then...it hit him. Why wait around and stick with the old plan when he could change the entire game, giving Hell a major advantage?

"He's a masterpiece," he mused. "My best work. He's like a son to me." Meg glared. "Oh, don't be jealous. You know how long I've waited for this day. And with Dean on our side, Heaven might as well surrender."

Meg moved to stand beside him, tapping the polished finger nails of her vessel on the rusted metal. "I'm just saying, what if Sam and John catch wind of this?"

"And what will they be able to do?" he laughed. "It's not like I tricked Dean into this! I simply told him the truth, that his father and brother continuously abandoned him and only called him up when he was useful to them. Dean, the poor boy, had to sacrifice everything for his younger brother, and what did he get in return? Not even a birthday card. Sam fucked off to Stanford, John went to fuck someone who wasn't Mary Winchester, and honestly, that's all Dean needed to embrace his true self, to become what he was always meant to be without those two shit bags holding him back.

"What would they be able to say to him that would make Dean reconsider?" he asked Meg. She remained silent. "They can try to proclaim their love, give empty promises, but Dean knows that they're lies." Shrugging, he continued, "The angels should have kept a better eye on their golden boy, but too little, too late; he's ours now. And I don't intend on letting him go so easily. Do you?"

Meg smirked. "I suppose he's proven himself useful, a valuable asset to our cause. And who knows, one day, I may even call him my brother."

"That's the spirit!" he laughed. In his pocket, his phone began to vibrate. Meg watched as he pulled it out of his pocket, the caller ID reading Dean's name. He picked up, "Azazel. Did you finish the job?"

Dean's dark laughter could be heard through the phone, followed by his drawl, _"You know I hate to waste a good victim. Should I clean up the mess?"_

"No," Azazel said thoughtfully. "I think we should leave a little something for John to come back to, don't you think?"

 _"It would be my pleasure."_

* * *

Castiel landed gracefully next to his superior, Zachariah, the lights of Heaven casting a glow over a garden, where an old man sat next to his wife, feeding the birds with smiles on their faces. Castiel stood silently, waiting to be addressed; Zachariah did not like to be disturbed when he was watching Father's creations. Although the older angel thought himself above the "mud monkeys", he found it interesting to watch them, to see what their souls desired in Heaven.

The younger angel had just returned from a mission, of which he had been unsuccessful. Originally, he had not been in charge of this task, but his superiors had decided to put faith in him, and he was disappointed that he had failed. The last time he had been on Earth was to kill a nephlim, and now he was part of his Father's grand plan to save his most precious creations and defeat Lucifer once and for all. His pride was wounded now, having failed to follow the orders to locate Sam and Dean Winchester.

"I take it you did not find what you were looking for," Zachariah stated, turning to face him.

Castiel frowned and bowed his head in shame. "My apologies, Zachariah, but I scoured the Earth for their souls. Dean Winchester is missing, and Sam has recently left Palo Alto with John Winchester."

"Impossible," he refuted. "Sam should not have been in Palo Alto as of late, and certainly not with John Winchester."

"Sir," Castiel said quietly. "Sam left Palo Alto just yesterday evening in Earth's time, just two days after the death of Jessica Moore, his wife, and Emily Moore, his daughter."

Zachariah stared at Castiel, holding his gaze unblinkingly. The older angel could see that Castiel was not lying and was in fact reporting nothing but the truth. "I see," he murmured. "You did well, Castiel. It is not your fault you could not find them; it seems that someone else was not following orders. It is of no consequence, the plan is still in motion. When the time comes, you will be the one to pull Dean Winchester from hell. I trust that you'll be prepared?"

"Of course," Castiel bowed his head once again. "It would be an honor to raise the Righteous Man from perdition."

Castiel disappeared in a flutter of wings, leaving Zachariah to stare contemplatively into the horizon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

The hotel room was dark except for the single lamp on the desk that was turned on, the old lightbulb casting a yellowed glow over the rickety table and the dusty pages of the thick book. A half drunk glass bottle of beer glimmered in the light, a small ring of condensation spreading underneath it, small droplets of water sliding down its smooth sides. Bobby Singer stared at the book, quietly intimidated by its very existence. He'd been procrastinating opening the book for about two hours now, always finding something else to do that would give him more time to ignore the tiny amulet staring at him from across the room. If he had been in his home, he could have kept himself busy for days cleaning up, scrubbing the kitchen down, buying groceries, dusting off his vast library, redoing the warding, even cleaning out his basement.

But in the hotel room, where it was just him in the book, there was only so much he could do before he had to force himself to sit down in front of it, flicking the lamp on and tapping his fingers on the wooden table. "Angels, Demons, and the Creatures Between" was a book Bobby had not used very often except for the occasional hunter calling about a demon problem. Before, Bobby would have scoffed at the idea of angels or any other "between" creature, but now, he wasn't so sure. After all, if demons were real, didn't that mean that angels were real too? Going down that path made his head hurt, made him have to open his mind and look beyond what he knew and find something else, something apparently divine. Although the angels could be real, Bobby wanted to believe that they weren't, because if they were, then he and a shit load of other people on the planet were probably wondering why the actual fuck God and his children hadn't stepped up to save people or stop suffering, and damn, didn't that just open up an entirely new can of worms?

The amulet seemed like it was mocking him, slowly rocking back and forth from where it hunt out of the book. Taking a deep breath, unable to put this off any longer, Bobby used his fingers to find the page the amulet had marked and open the book, thumb tracing the string of the necklace before he focused on the words of the first paragraph.

 _Reapers are angels that serve Death, assisting in maintaining the Natural Order. The servants of Death are neutral, meaning that they do not have any affiliation with Heaven, Hell, or even Purgatory. Reapers are required to wait for death to occur to a human before they are able to escort their souls to either Heaven or Hell. However, souls cannot be forced to go with them...There is the occasional servant that breaks the trend and becomes a rogue, purposefully misleading souls to a different afterlife for the purpose of profit..._ ******

Bobby jerked away from the book, hands shaking. The words stared at him, dauntingly, daring him to continue if he had the guts. But after what he had just read, it had confirmed his worst fears. Why else would Dean's amulet be in a page about reapers if this wasn't the thing that took him out?

"Wait a minute," Bobby whispered, leaning back over the book in the dim light, fingers following sentences as he reread. "Reapers can't kill anyone that isn't already dying."

This book had practically confirmed it, Dean was dead, or at least on the brink of death when this reaper escorted his soul somewhere. But that didn't make any sense! Why would Dean point him to a book on reapers if the reaper isn't what killed him? What could be so special about...

 _There is the occasional servant that breaks the trend...purposefully misleading souls to a different afterlife for the purpose of profit..._

"No," Bobby breathed. " **No**."

He wanted to deny it, to shove the book away and find another lead, but everything he'd been searching for over the past six years was right in front of him. This passage of text was the biggest lead that he'd ever gotten since the Impala, and just because he didn't like what the lead was telling him didn't mean that he could ignore it. But, God, how he wanted to. If Dean was trying to say what Bobby thought he was trying to say, then Dean had been dying, and instead of being escorted to the proper afterlife, he'd been dragged somewhere else, his soul mislead. And since Bobby ain't ever heard of a person coming back from Heaven, he could only conclude that Dean had been dragged to Hell.

It made his stomach lurch, and Bobby was on his feet, running to the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet to throw up the burger and fries he'd had for dinner.

He was angry, so angry with himself for not pushing John harder, for not demanding that the boys get a normal life. He had loved those boys, had thought of Dean and Sam as his own, and yet he had let them continue to grow up in this shit life, and now look where they were! Sam looked like a damn hobo, running off nothing but rage and energy drinks, having lose both his wife and kid just days prior. Dean was dead, had been dead for years, and if this book and amulet was any indication, he was a demon, no longer the caring boy he had known.

 _Jesus Christ_ , where had it all gone wrong? When had the universe decided to royally fuck the Winchesters over?

That there lied the root of the problem. Whatever was going on in the Winchester family sure as hell wasn't random. Even ignoring the shit with Dean and Sam, questions had to be asked on why the YED was in the Winchester home that night in Lawerence, Kansas. Demons weren't typically random, they had a reason, even if a very small, stupid reason, for picking their victims. So why Mary Winchester? Where did she come in? There had to be a connection, because why would a demon only kill Mary, but leave the rest of the family unharmed, especially when John, and maybe even Dean, had caught a glimpse of the evil bastard?

Bobby stood on shaky knees and rinsed his mouth out with water.

He knew now that no matter how much he wanted to shoot John Winchester in the face, their lives were intertwined. Bobby was looking for Dean, and whatever Dean had gotten entangled up with involved the Hell and demons, and demons, a specific YED, was what had ruined the lives of Sam and John, and Sam and John were probably looking for Dean not he side, and fuck, it was all such a complicated mess. Bobby would have to put aside his scorn and call John, because no matter how much the man frustrated him, he couldn't deny that Dean's disappearance and the death of Sam's family was most definitely not a coincidence.

Trudging back to the table, he knocked back the rest of the beer and dug his cell phone out of his bag. He scrolled to John's contact information and pressed the green call button. He answered on the second ring.

"Bobby?" John asked. "Did you find something on the demon?"

Bobby scrubbed a hand over his tired face and moved to sit on the bed, hunching over to lean on his knees.

"John," he said quietly. "I think I found a bit more than that."

* * *

After the encounter with Bobby at the rest stop, John had gripped the steering wheel tightly, driving in what Sam thought to be nowhere. They could no longer go to Bobby's, since Bobby made it absolutely clear that he wasn't going back to his house and wasn't going to let them crash there, tragedy be damned. Sam didn't know what other leads his father could have had, not while sitting in Palo Alto, and Sam knew from a lot of eavesdropping as a kid that John had burned a lot of bridges in the hunting world being his natural asshole self, so it's not like he had any hunting buddies he could have called up for help.

John was going through an internal battle. He didn't have a lead on the YED, and he'd have to stop driving eventually to continue to map out a pattern, find a trail, discover a new lead. Sam would be useful with research, and it was probably good that Sam wouldn't be going out in the field so soon; he'd probably end up getting himself killed. However, it wasn't the YED he was thinking about for once, which was rather surprising. He kept glancing in the mirror in the car to look at his bag thrown in the back seat along with the plastic bags from the rest stop, eyes burning holes in the bag as if he were trying to stare at the camera through the material.

Watching that video had been...there just weren't the words to describe how he felt, how the blood in his veins had stopped pumping for a minute as he tried to process what he had seen. He tried to ignore it for a little while longer and focus not the demon, but driving in the car, in the middle of nowhere, he could no longer deny that Dean's presence in Palo Alto was directly connected to the YED killing Jessica and Emily. And, God, he never thought that would be a sentence he would ever think. What made it worse was that he didn't even know how to explain it to Sam in a way that didn't make him go off the deep end. Whatever he was dreaming about was another thing entirely, yet another hunch he had after years of tracking that yellow eyed monster, and he didn't know how to approach Sam with that either without getting a fist to the face. Sam may have been grieving right now, but he was a big boy, strong, and was no longer at the age or size where John could push him around anymore.

He didn't even know how Sam would react to the new of Dean being spotted at his house the night of the fire, let alone having been the one to barge in. After Lacy had showed him the video, he'd been forced to accept the very real possibility that Sam really had seen the Impala before he was sedated. But even with the Impala and Dean both being spotted in Palo Alto in Sam's neighborhood, and having been the one to break in the side door of Sam's house that night, it didn't explain why Dean would be there in the first place. For six years his son went off the grid, and then suddenly he shows up at the exact same time as Sam's family is murdered? There wasn't any logical explanation that John could make up that would justify Dean at the scene, especially in a way that didn't imply that Dean was in cahoots with the YED.

The very thought of that made John's stomach turn.

His phone ringing brought him out of his thoughts and made Sam jump in surprise. Before John could grab the phone that was sitting in the cupholder, Sam flipped it open and showed his father the caller ID. Bobby? Had he come across something already?

"Bobby," John said. "Did you find something on the demon?"

"John," Bobby's voice was quiet and worn out, like he'd been dragged through every horror imaginable. "I think I found a bit more than that."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked. "You found what the demon is planning?"

"No, I," Bobby broke off for a bit, and the three men sat in silence until Bobby continued, "I don't think this is a conversation we should have over the phone, as much as I'd like to. Don't wanna risk you crashing the car, John."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" John demanded. "What did you find?"

"I'm at the hotel just two blocks away from the gas station, room 26."

The line went dead, and John growled, snatching the phone out of Sam's hand and snapping it closed, tossing it in the back seat with this rest of his stuff. Without stopping the truck or even slowing down, John whipped around on the highway, tires squealing as they slid across the asphalt. Straightening the truck, John stomped on the gas and headed back the way he'd came.

* * *

"What do you think this is about?" Sam asked his father as they climbed out of the truck, duffle bags in hand. They'd made it back to the hotel in what seemed like record time, although it was no surprise with the way John had been driving, foot pressing down on the gas pedal as if it was the last thing it would ever do. They'd managed to snag the last empty hotel room with two beds that was conveniently placed just a door down from Bobby's room, in room 27.

"No idea," John muttered. "He didn't say anything about the demon, but it could just be more bad news."

"Bad enough that he didn't want to tell us over the phone?" Sam pressed. "You and I both know that never seeing your face again was at the very top of Bobby's bucket list. What could possible be so bad that he was willing to call a meeting? You guys didn't exactly part on amicable terms."

John didn't bother to dignify that with a response, instead shouldering past Sam to get to their own motel room, tossing his bag on the nearest table, Sam doing the same, before they walked the few feet back to room 26 and knocked.

Bobby opened the door and ushered them inside, the two men carefully stepping over the salt line. Before closing the door, Bobby peered out at the motel parking lot, scanning the scene. Just a few cars, other than he and John's trucks. were scattered along the parking lot, the night silent except for the chatter of crickets and rustling leaves. It was late, so he didn't expect to see much of anything, but with the things he was planning on tampering with, one could never be too careful, especially where the supernatural was involved. He shut the door and locked it, turning to face the two Winchesters.

"Alright, Bobby," John sighed, moving to go sit. "What's-"

"Where did you get this?" Sam's voice was low, containing a spark of rage that was threatening to explode. _"Where did you get this!?"_ He spun around, holding the book that was on the table in the air, Dean's amulet dangling from it and shining under the light from the lamp.

"What the hell?!" John jumped to attention.

"I won't ask you again," Sam hissed.

"If you two would shut up and let me explain!" Bobby yelled, yanking the book out of Sam's hands. Sam's hands fell at his sides, fingers balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Both of you sit down and shut up."

He waited for the two of them to get themselves together before he pulled up another chair and laid the book out on the table, taking a deep breath.

"I've been searching for Dean for almost six years," Bobby began quietly, looking each Winchester in the eye. "Rufus and I were working a case back then, took care of a werewolf. We were in Lawerence, Kansas." John tensed up at this. "When Rufus and I were cleaning up, we came across the Impala in the middle of the woods. It was torn apart; the windows shattered, the seats ripped apart, whole car covered with dents. The only thing that was virtually untouched with the trunk. It had all of Dean's weapons, his fake IDS, everything in there. But we didn't find Dean. Over the past six years, I exhausted every resource I had, contacted every hunter I knew, and the hunters they knew, and nothing. Dean was gone without a trace."

"And you didn't think to say something about this years ago?" John snarled, arm cocked as if he was going to take a swing at Bobby.

"Oh, sure," Bobby sneered. "I'm sure Dean's piece of shit father and college boy brother were really worried about it." The fight drained out of John, and Sam had to look away from Bobby's judgmental gaze. "The two of you fucked off to God knows where, and how long did it take you to realize that the boy was missing?" Silence. "Yeah, that's exactly what I thought." He shook his head at John. "Rufus told me to call you, but I wasn't going to waste my breath. You would never give up the hunt for the YED, even if your son was in danger. Don't even try to deny it, because all three of us know it's true.

"Rufus and I brought the Impala back to Sioux Falls, and I fixed it up as best as I could. I thought that maybe Dean had some information about old cases in the car that I could use to track him, but there was nothing. And then a few months ago, I look outside, and the Impala is gone."

"So he's alive," Sam said hopefully. "That means he's okay!"

"Anyone could have taken the Impala, Sam," John pointed out.

"But no one else but Dean had his amulet!" Sam argued.

"He isn't alive," Bobby snapped. "At least, not in the way we want him to be."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John demanded.

Bobby gestured to the book in front of him. "Almost two days ago, after yet another night of dead ends on finding Dean, I drank until I passed out on the couch. I woke up the next morning in my bed, with this book and Dean's amulet on the nightstand." He fingered the cover, lifting his head to hold John's eye. "You ain't gonna like it."

"What does it say."

"John-"

"What does it say?!"

Unwilling to be the one to directly deliver the bad news, Bobby slowly opened the book to where he had left off and slid it across the table so that both John and Sam could read it under the lamp. John's eyes flicked back and forth across the page quickly before he simply said, "Dean is not dead."

"John," Bobby whispered.

"My son is not dead!" He snarled, snatching the book off the table and throwing it across the room. It collided with the wall, a heavy thud echoing. The amulet bounced off the wall and with a clank landed in the rusting trash can in the corner.

"For someone who didn't even notice his son was missing until very recently, I suggest you sit your ass down," Bobby barked. "You think I like this? You think I enjoy having to chase after these clues to figure out what the hell happened to Dean? And quite frankly, you and Rapunzel over here," Bobby tossed a dark glance in Sam's direction, "have no right to act as if you're most upset than I am!"

"Dean is my brother!" Sam snapped, finally joining the conversation.

"Interesting that you say that, Sam," Bobby said. "Would you like to tell me when you last spoke with Dean?" Sam's mouth shut with an audible click. "Have you ever called him on his birthday? Or, hell, you shouldn't have needed a special occasion. Did you ever call to see if he was still alive? Or did Dean's existence slip your mind until after the rest of your perfect normal life went up in flames?"

"How dare you," Sam hissed. "How _dare_ -"

"No, how dare you?" Bobby roared. "That boy sacrifices everything for you, and not once did you say thank you, not _once_ did you call him to just chat, because you went to Stanford, and how could such a sophisticated college student so much as say hello to a someone like Dean?"

"That's not true," Sam whispered defensively. "That isn't-"

"Let's face the facts, Sammy," Bobby cut him off. "Stanford wasn't just a ticket to a normal life, it was also the perfect way to leave your family behind. Sometimes I wondered if you were ever really John's son, but seeing how easily you cut people off when they're no longer useful for you, I can very clearly see the resemblance!"

"I did the best I could," John argued. "I did the best that I could raising those boys-"

"No, you were so angry about your own life being fucked up that you had to drag them down with you, because misery loves company. Let's not pretend that you actually care about Dean and Sam, okay, because I remember Dean having to starve so Sam could eat while you were off God knows where. I remember Dean not being allowed to play outside or learn how to play baseball, because a six year old learning how to shoot a gun is clearly appropriate. I remember Dean spoiling Sam rotten and indulging you and your shit, and both of you continuously stepped on him and shoved him to the side, always demanding that he pick a side in yet another pointless argument between you two. I remember Dean being excited to graduate high school, boy made me so proud with a 4.0 GPA that he earned all by himself, only to call me in tears, because you were making him drop out."

Sam stared at his father through his shaggy hair. Dean had wanted to graduate high school? All this time Sam had assumed that Dean, much like their father, didn't care much for academics and just decided to get out while he could. This new revelation didn't sit well with Sam, driving holes in all his past beliefs, and not he didn't know what to think. He didn't like Bobby practically putting all his thoughts out on the table, exposing him for not being concerned about Dean for all these years. Until that moment, Sam had forgotten that without him there to back Dean up, Dean was probably out on hunts alone, scouring the woods for wendigos and werewolves all by his lonesome. Sam's stomach twisted as his brain assaulted him with the graphic imagery of Dean's intestines draped across the forest floor, his heart ripped to shreds, eyes staring blankly into the dark.

"John," Bobby continued, voice slightly quieter and just a tad gentler. "Believe it or not, I didn't call you two here to scream at you. Look," he quickly sidestepped around Sam's frozen form to grab the amulet and the book again, plopping them both down on the rickety table once more, the old piece of furniture giving a groan at the impact, "It says here that reapers can't kill anyone that was already dying. So Dean was already on the brink before his soul was taken."

"Reapers?" John scoffed. "Angels? You expect me to believe-"

"At first you didn't believe that it was a demon that killed Mary, even with all the signs pointed at you. Do you really want to make the same mistake again?"

John and Bobby stared each other down for a brief moment before John clenched his jaw and eased himself into a chair, knuckles white as he tightly gripped the armrests. "Alright," he said quietly, "What have you got?" He gestured for Sam to come back over. Sam stared at his father, feeling as though he knew that man extensively but also not at all. What else had Dean given up because John ordered him to, because Dean wanted to protect Sam for just a little while longer? What else did John have stowed away?

Hauling over more bags of books, Bobby plucked a few out and stacked them on the table. "I've been reading up on reapers, finding everything that I can. All the books generally say the same, that they're angels that work for Death."

"It says here that some reapers can go rogue," Sam pointed to the passage. "I don't understand, if reapers have a job that is controlled by 'Death', then how can they disobey?"

John wanted to mutter something along the lines of, "You seemed to have no problem doing so," but quickly decided against it. He and Sam could not afford to fight, not right now. When this was over, then they could scream at each other to their hearts' content. "If someone, or something, offered a reaper something valuable, then they could do something off the record."

"Exactly," Bobby said. "I've been thinking, since reapers escort souls to where they are destined to be in the afterlife, then the only reason a reaper would have gone rogue for a profit is if they were taking Dean somewhere else. And something tells me that Reapers aren't likely to smuggle a soul into Heaven."

"You think the reaper dragged Dean down to hell," John breathed.

"Think about it," Bobby exclaimed. "Dean's soul was supposed to go to Heaven, and from the books that I've read, it's damn near impossible to buy your way into their. So where else would a reaper take Dean's soul?"

"Why would someone want Dean in hell?" Sam questioned. "And anyways, that means that the reaper was working with another creature, certainly not a human."

"We shouldn't rule out another hunter," John pointed out. "I ain't exactly make a lot of friends over the years."

"Yeah," Sam scoffed. "But," he pressed his finger against the page of the book he had been scouring, _Occupata iurisdictionem Sancti*_ , "the only way another hunter would be able to use a reaper would be to bind it, and seeing as how hunters have a strict, 'If it ain't human, it dies' policy, I highly doubt they have a Reaper in their pocket. It has to be another supernatural creature. After all, we killed a lot of those, word got out that Dean was alone, so they decided to strike."

"It seems like an awful lot of trouble," Bobby sighed, leaning back in his chair, holding the amulet's strings between his fingers. "I mean, a vampire or ghoul asking a reaper to drag Dean's soul to hell? What would they gain from that? The only ones who would truly benefit from having Dean down under would be-" Bobby stopped. Of course, the idea that Dean was alive but not in the way he should be had crossed his mind, and he had even mentioned it earlier, but for it to be a possible reality? But it was the only theory that made sense. No other supernatural creature would benefit from Dean being in hell except for the demons. And as far as he knew, there was only one specific demon with a very personal vendetta against the Winchesters, so much so that it had claimed not one, but two wives.

"Bobby?" John asked. "What is it?"

"Demons," he breathed. "Or, just one in particular."

Without a word, Sam pushed away from the table and squeezed around Bobby and his father, hand on the doorknob. John demanded to know where he was going, and Sam quietly responded, "I need to lay down for a little while, okay?"

John got up too, telling Bobby, "I'll be back, I need to make sure he gets in safely. At his house he didn't even have salt lines down, Jesus Christ."

Bobby shut the door behind them, and John started to set up the room, pouring a line of salt around the windows and doors, making sure to make the one by the door wide enough so that opening and closing the door wouldn't disturb it. Sam moved his duffle bag to the chair and flopped on the bed, not even bothering to remove the covers. He knew he should be in there with Bobby, trying to connect the dots, but his head began to hurt like a bitch, and he just couldn't take it anymore. God, it was like every time he thought his life was okay, the universe came out from around the corner to remind him that he was on her shit list. Bobby's theory that it was the yellow eyed demon that had taken his brother had only made his headache spike.

For fuck's sake, what did that bastard even want? There didn't even seem to be a pattern to his killings, at least not that Sam could see. It had killed his mother, had killed Jess and Emily, and apparently, it's possible that it had killed Dean years ago. So what was the game plan? The next move? He desperately wanted to believe that the demon was just killing for fun, but the people had had killed didn't allow that theory to take hold; after all, if it was just pure fun, why did he seem to have a vendetta against the Winchesters?

Watching his father put down the salt lines and put a shotgun next to his bed, Sam wondered if his father knew what the deal was. He probably did, and of course, in typical John Winchester style, he had chosen not to tell Sam a thing. Too tired to deal with that right now, Sam allowed himself to sink into a deep sleep, with the intention of getting to the bottom of things when he woke up.

* * *

After making sure to lock the door behind him, John stood on the sidewalk outside the motel room, duffle bag slung over one shoulder. He inhaled deeply, the cool, fresh air forcing some of the exhaustion out of his bones. Standing there, looking at the empty parking lot, and the distant sight of the highway behind the trees, he was tempted to make a run for it.

Working in a team wasn't something he excelled in, he could admit that, and he hated not being the one in charge 24/7, but in this situation, he didn't have much of a choice. He hadn't even originally planned on dragging Sam into it, but the stuff he had found had given him no choice but to go find his wayward son. The patterns he had drawn up over the years about the YED and his victims hadn't made sense when it came to Sam. The target seemed to be the children, he had done something to them, and as the kids reached their six month mark, he'd kill the mothers and sometimes even the entire family. But...that didn't happen for them. Yes, Mary had been killed, but Sam had gone to college, had a child and another one on the way. So why kill them?

Shaking his head, John knocked on Bobby's door. The older man let him in, locking the door behind him.

"How's Sam?" he asked.

"Out cold," John sighed, placing his bag on the seat that Sam had previously occupied and bringing out Lacy's camera, a cord, and a laptop. Bobby began to move the books out of the way, moving some to the floor and returning others to his bags, clouds of dust puffing up as the old things were heaved about. John tapped his fingers impatiently against the keyboard as the laptop booted up, slowly coming to life. He waited for Bobby to finish up before lowering his voice, aware of how thin the walls of motels could be. "I didn't want to do this in front of Sam, not yet. I don't think he's ready. He gives off this front that he's fine but really he's ten seconds from a meltdown."

"Remind you of anyone?" Bobby mumbled under his breath, settling in the chair and staring expectantly at the computer screen, which had finally came up. John opened the video file like he'd seen Lacy do and turned the laptop to face Bobby, not yet pushing play. "Where did you get this camera?"

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking," John grumbled. "Lacy, the girl who lives across the street from Sam, gave it to me."

"And why would she do that? You probably scared the poor girl half to death."

"When Sam was in the hospital, I went back to his neighborhood with the intention of asking some questions, to find out if anyone had seen or heard anything weird, something they thought would be too weird to tell the police. Anything that resembled the supernatural. Of course, I had already drawn the conclusion that it was the YED, but I figured my life would get a lot easier if I knew what his meat suit looked like." Lacy's cheerful face filled the frame, pompoms in hand, Sam's house standing behind her, a picture of perfection, the calm before the storm. "When I got there, Lacy pulled me aside. She said she saw something, that when she was outside, her camera had recorded the entire thing. I," he took a deep breath. "I hadn't wanted to believe it at first. I tried to believe that the universe would not fuck over this family this badly, but after this video, after Dean's amulet showing up in your house in that book..."

John stopped talking, instead turning the volume up and pressing play.

* * *

 _Occupata iurisdictionem Sancti:_ Gaining Jurisdiction Over the Holy

** : Means that a certain paragraph was taken from the Supernatural wikia website.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

 _"I put a spell on you," a deep, haunting voice sang out. "Because you're mine..."_

 _The lyrics echoed through the damp building, bouncing off the walls. The wooden floor was heavily damaged from the dripping water from the ceiling, where busted pipes gushed a gross brown liquid that plopped on the floor, the occasional chuck splattering against the floor, pieces of it flying in every direction. The only light on that floor the building was up ahead, in a room that was off to the side. Darkness shrouded the rest of the floor, intensifying the feeling of impending doom._

 _"You better stop the things you do," the voice continued, "I'll tell you I ain't lying, I ain't lying. You know I can't stand it, you're running around, you know better daddy, I can't stand it cause you put me down...oh no..."_

 _Fear coursed through Sam's veins. The voice was coming closer, but it wasn't from the direction of the light. No, it was coming from behind him. He tried to move his body only to discover that he was stuck in place. He couldn't turn his head to see behind him, not that it would help much; he couldn't see anyways in this darkness. He waited with baited breath as the sound of feet sloshing through the puddles on the floor became louder, more pronounced._

 _"You're awfully cheerful," someone drawled._

 _"Well, it's been a good day," a different person laughed._

 _"I take it you enjoyed your time with Adam?"_

 _"One of the best days of my life," another laugh._

 _Two men walked through him, one in a black leather jacket and the other in a tweed sweater. The one in the leather jacket was taller, almost having a foot on the other man, but he followed the tweed wearing man like he was a God. As they moved through the shit water, Sam's body floated behind them, not too close, but never able to move forward to see their faces, to put a face to the things in his nightmares. The dim light from the room cast long shadows all over the hallway. The leather jacket shouldn't have been so familiar to Sam, but it was, as if he'd seen in several times before. But surely it was a coincidence. After all, a lot of people owned black leather jackets._

 _"How long do you think it'll take before John finds the Milligans?" asked leather jacket. "We don't want to leave the bodies out for too long, then his reaction won't be as fun!"_

 _Tweed sweater laughed and reached up to caress the other man's face. The man leaned into it, practically purring at the attention. "We won't even need to call him. By this time, I'm sure Sammy boy has been having the dreams. He'll tell John soon enough, and then John will find out that he's down yet another Winchester."_

 _What the hell did that mean? Sam wondered. Who the hell was Adam and the Milligans, and why would John be upset about his death? John hadn't made a lot of friends over the years, what with his holier than thou attitude and his inability to let someone else be in charge, and always assuming that he was right even when he was so obviously wrong. His father had burned bridges with a lot of hunters, and to be honest, if other hunters never saw John Winchester again, it would too soon._

 _"And what do we do about Sam?" leather jacket questioned. "Is it time to move forward with the plans?"_

 _"Not yet, my son. Just a bit longer, and then you'll be free to work your magic. You won't let me down, will you? You'll make me proud?"_

 _"Always," the other man breathed. "Forever."_

* * *

Sam jerked awake with a small gasp of surprise. This was the first weird dream that hadn't involved something directly violent, even though the way the leather jacket guy mentioned Adam and the Milligans suggested that they'd met a rather unfortunate, bloody end. Sam flopped back down onto the pillow, craning his head to look over his shoulder at his father, who was breathing deeply in the other bed, one hand under the pillow gripping a weapon without a doubt.

Sam knew that he should tell his dad about the dreams, should tell him that he saw Jess and Emily die before it actually happened, tell him that he thinks these dreams are trying to tell him something, but he didn't know how to bring it up without John pulling a gun on him. These dreams did strongly hint at the supernatural, and anything that wasn't human didn't have much value in the eyes of John Winchester. And without Dean here to play referee and to keep John from killing Sam on the spot, he was even more hesitant to mention it.

And how would he even introduce the topic? Would John believe him if Sam told him that he thought these dreams were premonitions? Although, the only dream he could really classify as a vision of the future would be the dreams he had about Jessica and Emily months ago, which had become a reality in almost the same way that he had dreamt it. In his dreams, there hadn't been anyone else in the house. Of course, now that the YED was as good as confirmed to have been in Palo Alto that night, he knew that he'd definitely missed one part of his vision. That just left the other guy.

The guy with the leather jacket was in the dream he had last night, and the one he had when he was in the car with his dad. He had never seen the guy's face, but the deep baritone of his voice, the way he sang, and the way he walked, it was all frustratingly familiar to Sam. And so there had to be two people in the house the night his wife and daughter died, because there's no way he'd ever seen the YED before, no matter what vessel it was in. The YED had an accomplice, and it was someone Sam knew, or at least used to know.

Huffing, Sam stretched his body out on the bed, arching his back and expanding his muscles, letting out a small groan. He kicked the covers off himself and stumbled into the bathroom, snatching up his duffle bag as he went, his legs nearly failing him a couple of times, as if he were a newborn deer, taking his very first steps across the grassy forest. He shut the bathroom door behind him and set the bag down on top of the closed toilet lid. He stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was greasy and stuck up in clumps around his head, a few strands plastered to his forehead with sweat. His facial hair had grown out of control, making him go from a lawyer with a family and a two picket fence to a homeless ragamuffin who had slept under a dumpster.

Disgusted, Sam spotted a few particles of food in his beard, already hardened from the nights it spent on his face. Determined to get himself together, for Jess and Emily's sake, Sam pulled out the shaving cream and razor from his bag and got to work.

He must have been in the bathroom for nearly an hour and a half before he finally finished, having brushed his teeth thoroughly and taken a long, hot, well deserved shower. Looking in the mirror now, he looked like the Sam of a few days ago, the Sam that had placed his hand on Jess' belly to feel the baby kick, their excitement palpable, Emily cheerfully chattering about being a big sister in the background. Although it brought back memories, he had to admit he felt a lot better, slightly lighter than he did before. He wouldn't be able to avenge his family if he was too busy falling apart at the seams, and cleaning himself up and making himself look presentable was the first step.

Exiting the bathroom, he saw his father sitting at the table by the window, a cup of coffee in one hand, and another on the table for Sam.

"You don't look like shit," John observed.

Downing half the coffee, Sam ignored the pain from gulping down the burning liquid and grumbled, "One of us has to, Mr. Lumberjack."

"At least my facial hair is always at a consistent length," John said. "You went from baby face to homeless back to baby face in the span of how many days?"

Sam ignored him, towel secured tightly around his waist as he tossed his bag on the bed and started to pull out clothes. God, he had forgotten just how much plaid his family usually wore. He fingered the rough material, eyeing the red and black material. The jeans were well worn and kind of frayed at the ends, but not very noticeable if one didn't look too hard. He couldn't help but compare his current wardrobe options to his home in Palo Alto, where he wore pressed slacks and button ups to work, Jess tying his tie for him every morning because she swore he could never get it right; with the jeans carefully hung up in the back of the closet, only being taken out when he and his family were going out to a barbecue at the neighbors or relaxing for the weekend.

"When did you get all of this?" Sam asked his father after he found the hiking boots in the bag in his size. All of the clothes were definitely going to fit him.

"I picked it up while you were in the hospital," John said. "I figured I'll kill some time."

"And you just knew that I'd go back to hunting?"

John cut his eyes at him. "You're here, aren't you?"

Sam shook his head and turned away again to get dressed. It was...a process. Shrugging on the plaid shirts and jeans felt uncomfortable, his skin reacting negatively to the feeling of such cheap material against his skin. He knew he would sound shitty if he said it to his father out loud, but for years he'd been wearing expensive suits and shirts, with custom made shoes that had arches for extra support. The shirts slid against his skin smoothly, a gentle caress, nothing like the shirts and jeans now, which chaffed him. The hiking boots gave good support to his ankles, but they weren't the loafers he'd become accustomed to.

Unaware that John had started to watch him, Sam became lost in his own head for a bit, wondering if he'd ever get used to this. After years of living the good life, of being supernatural free and only worrying about winning the cases he'd been assigned, he was thrown back into the world of werewolves and wendigos, and it scared him because there have been moments where it felt as if he'd never even left. Despite nearly six years away from the other two Winchesters, Sam could still recount information about the supernatural that had been drilled into his head. If his father were to ask him right now to give him the ways one would go about killing a ghoul, werewolf, or a wraith, Sam, without hesitation, could tell him, could even point out the weapons in their possession that would be the most efficient.

It terrified Sam to come to the realization that despite leaving the hunting life, the hunting life had never really left him; it had just been dormant, waiting for just the right moment to spring back into existence.

"You okay?"

John's gruff voice startled Sam. The taller man gave a weak smile and jerky nod, forcing his hands to stop shaking as he zipped the bag back up.

"So, what's our next move?" Sam questioned. "Did you and Bobby hash out a plan last night?"

"Somewhat," John grunted. "Listen, Sam, there are some things we need to tell you."

"Something I didn't hear about last night?" Sam sank into the seat across from his father. "I think it's safe to say that I missed out on quite a bit, seeing as how I passed out."

"No, Sam," John sighed. "I mean that there are things that I didn't tell you about last night while you still awake. I should have told you, but I didn't know how to break it to you gently." Sam tensed. John continued, "I...I know I've never been able to really communicate with you in the way that Dean was, and that's just made this a lot harder. I want to tell you things, I want to try, but you have a habit of undermining me," Sam opened his mouth to protest but his father plowed on, "and you never want to listen to what I have to say. If I had a dollar for every time you accused me of something without even having all of the information, I'd be rolling in cash, Sam."

Sam's mouth shut with a muted click.

John continued, "When you were sedated again at the hospital, I stepped out and went back to your neighborhood. I thought that maybe I could ask some of the neighbors what they saw, find out if they had come across anything that resembled the supernatural. We both knew that it was the YED, but I thought that maybe someone had at least seen the face of the poor sap he's been possessing. When I got there, I didn't even get the chance to knock on anyone's door before someone reached out to me."

John reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a camera.

"Why do you have Lacy's camera?" Sam demanded. "Did you steal that from her?"

"I'm a little concerned that you know it's her camera without having to hesitate."

"Seeing as how I bought her that for her birthday," Sam rolled his eyes. "Why do you have the camera?"

"Sam," John murmured. "What you're about to see...I need you to promise me that stay in control of yourself. We can't afford an outburst, we can't afford a fight. Not right now."

Sam's stomach clenched tightly, and he couldn't tell if it was because he was starving or because it was filled with dread. Lacy's camera gleamed at him, yet another reminder of the life that he'd left behind. Or, more accurately, the life that was stolen from him. Whatever was on that camera, from the way his dad was acting, it was bad. But how bad? Bad enough that John was expecting a brawl?

"I promise."

* * *

The Impala's engine rumbled, causing the warmth of familiarity to spread through Dean's chest. No matter how many times behind he got the wheel, every time felt like he was coming home. A lot of people had let him down, but he could always count on his Baby to be there for him through thick and thin. He slid his hands over the steering wheel, inhaling deeply. He'd cleaned the car after dealing with Adam and Kate Milligan, so now the smell of fresh leather filled the car.

Killing Adam and Kate had been filled with vindictive justice.

When he had found out about their existence, he'd nearly lost his mind to his rage, prepared to tear the world apart with his bare hands. He spent his entire life under John's thumb, being forced to jump out of high school and abandon his hopes and dreams because of some wild goose chase after the YED, and the entire time John had been giving Adam a happy, normal life filled with baseball games and birthday parties. And although Dean wasn't very happy with Sam either, he had killed Adam for him too, because Lord knows John threw a fit when Sam went to college but was overjoyed when Adam skipped a grade.

Dean wished he had drawn Adam and Kate's death out a bit longer, although he had enjoyed watching them beg for mercy, trying to appeal to his better nature as he plunged his hands into the wounds in their torsos. Their agony filled sobs had been drawn out for hours; Dean liked to be thorough with his work. After all, his father raised him to be the best.

But he needn't worry for too long. His father, the one who showed him who he was destined to be, had compiled a list of John Winchester's old friends and family. With Adam and Kate out of the way, it was up to Dean to get rid of the rest, to take out whatever bridges John hadn't yet burned and slow their procession down. John was a formidable hunter, Dean had to admit, but Dean was better, and his years in Hell had only honed his skills.

"Winchester." The passenger door to the Impala opened and Meg slid in, shutting the door behind her. He'd been parked at a desolate strip mall, a few cars parked throughout the parking lot. He was meeting Meg here to pick her up, but he'd had no other information besides that.

"Meg," Dean grinned. "Father has an assignment for me?"

"He does," Meg drawled. "Your next targets are Ellen and Jo Harvelle, although you won't be killing them. Not yet."

"That's no fun," Dean pouted, steering the car onto the road, his Baby picking up speed on the empty highway. Meg rolled her window down and leaned back in her chair, the wind whipping her dark hair about.

"You'll be befriending them both, but Father wants you to focus on Jo, use some of that Winchester charm I keep hearing about. From our sources we gathered that John wouldn't be heading to the Roadhouse for quite some time, seeing as how he got Ellen's husband killed. However, there is a wrench in our plans that we hadn't accounted for."

"A wrench?" Dean glowered. "Sounds like something we need to take care of."

"I don't think you'll agree," Meg smiled. "Bobby Singer has joined John and Sam Winchester in the hunt for you and dear old Dad."

Dean clenched his jaw tightly, foot pressing down harder on the gas, the Impala speeding up to go flying 85 mph down the highway. He hadn't thought that Bobby would join John and Sam. The last time Bobby and John had been in the same room, Bobby had nearly blown John's brains out, and had banned the oldest Winchester from ever coming on his land again. Of all the people that had pissed him off in the past, Bobby was one person who he was fond of. He didn't want to hurt Bobby if the situation escalated, but he knew that if Father didn't approve of his request, he'd have no other choice but to get rid of the last link to his past.

"Don't take it personal, love," Meg purred, patting Dean's cheek. He slapped her hand away. "You should count yourself lucky; Dad's thinking about letting you keep Singer as a pet. You keep doing what you're doing, and you'll get your reward."

"And Sam?"

Sam was someone Dean would love to get his hands on, had been dreaming out killing for years now, but Sam's importance in the grand plan prevented him from going after him. He had to be patient, but it was killing him to let the little bastard walk around as free as a bird. But Sam couldn't be harmed, at least not physically. He was needed to contain Lucifer once he got out of the cage, and Dean wouldn't dare disobey his father and jeopardize the entire apocalypse just because he wanted to play with his knives. But Dean supposed that he could deal with it; after all, Dean may be good at what he does, but Lucifer was better.

"Ruby has her orders," Meg said. "She's ready to go whenever Dad gives the word. It'll be soon, don't worry. We have to move as quickly as possible before Heaven catches on to what we're doing. That's why we need you to be effective. There's no telling what Heaven will do when they find out that Michael's vessel is unavailable, and we can't let them get to you, especially not now."

"Relax, I'll be careful."

No other words were shared, and Dean took the opportunity to push a tape into the dashboard. Music filled the car along with the sound of the whipping wind, and the two rode down the highway in companionable silence.

* * *

"I trust everything is going according to plan?"

The drawled sentence was spoken softly, and yet it still resonated off the walls of the room, the cold, damp walls creating a chill despite the room's location. A cage was bolted down in the middle of the room, a bundle of pure energy shimmering inside, a mix of light and darkness. Azazel walked forward slowly, keeping his eyes pointed downwards. His master was on edge, ready to be free of the chains that God had bound him in, and Azazel was pleased that he could report good news. Coming in with reports of set backs and other obstacles only served to make his master hostile, and Azazel knew as well as anyone that anyone on Lucifer's bad side now would surely never live to see the apocalypse, because Lucifer would punish them the second he got out of the cage. And Azazel had put in too much work to be torn to shreds before he could see it come to fruition.

Lucifer had been in that cage for, goodness, how long had it been? Millions of years spent in isolation, in the darkness. Ensuring that the apocalypse went according to plan was the only thing keeping Lucifer content in his cage. And despite the millennia spent in Hell, Lucifer's beauty was nearly unparalleled. Without a vessel, his true form was condemned inside the cage, and his multiple heads and dozens of eyes were on full display. The only part that any demon that came down here took care to avoid looking at was Lucifer's wing. There wasn't enough room to stretch them in the cage, and they had gotten dirty over time, and Lucifer promised a slow, painful death to anyone who dared to mock his current state.

"Adam and Kate Milligan have been taken care of," Azazel reported first. The Milligan's death was essential to the plan. After all, they couldn't have Michael pulling a fast one and trying to persuade Adam to say yes. And to ensure Michael's lack of vessel, Azazel had granted Dean to drag their souls down to the deepest, darkest pits of hell. "Dean is on his way to the Harvelle's as we speak. He knows what to do."

"Mhm," Lucifer chuckled darkly. "I never thought I'd see the day that our very own Righteous Man joined our side."

Azazel shrugged. "His family should have kept a better eye on him then. Their loss is our gain, and Dean is all too happy to serve."

"And what of Heaven?" His master questioned. "Have they not yet noticed that their golden boy is missing?"

Azazel had been keeping tabs on the divine creatures, but so far, he'd heard nothing that implied that they were on to him. Dean Winchester had yet to cross their minds, and their arrogance in their plan is what set them back.

"Heaven has an awful habit of assuming that they can take their eye off of something for a while and when they look back, it'll be undisturbed. They should know better by now, honestly. And when they finally do realize that Dean isn't where he should be, there isn't much they can do about it. Dean's body is still his own, the same one he had when he was dragged down under. If Michael wants to jump in, Dean will still have to say yes."

"And he won't?" Lucifer's light was blinding, even with Azalea's head bowed the brightness caused him mild discomfort.

"I swear it," Azazel replied. "Dean is ours. He's eager to serve you. He looks forward to your release. As do I."

Azazel exited, the door shutting tightly behind him. Lucifer growled, curling one of many hands around the bars of the cage. Even from inside his prison, he could feel Sam Winchester's soul, broken and hurting, a perfect target for a vessel.

"Soon," Lucifer whispered to himself. "Very, very soon."

* * *

After watching the video from Lacy's camera, Sam had nearly broken his promise and gone into a fit, prepared to leap over the table and give his father a well deserved punch to the face. But he knew that his dad was right; right now was not the time to get into fights and waste time squabbling, not when the YED and Dean were out there.

And, God, to have Dean be confirmed to be working with the YED, or maybe even acting on his own? It had made bile rise in Sam's throat, and he'd only just managed to make it to the bathroom to throw up.

Spitting into the toilet one last time, Sam pushed himself off of his knees and flushed the toilet. He turned to the sink and rinsed his mouth out thoroughly with water until the taste of vomit was nonexistent. He could hear his father out in the motel room, his boots thudding against the carpeted floor. He knew he'd have to go back out there and face the music, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to accept that his brother had gone off the deep end even though the evidence from last night's conference, Dean had already leapt off the deep end a long time ago.

Honestly, last night's revelation that Dean was probably a demon was already a ground shaker. But to have Dean be confirmed as the one who broke into his house the night Jess and Emily went up in flames? To have him confirmed as an accomplice to the YED?

If he had any more heart to break, it would be shattered right now.

Two quick knocks came through the door. John spoke. "Hey, we need to head over to Bobby's and get you caught up. We have some possible leads we need pursue, see what we can find out about Dean."

"Coming," Sam replied shakily. He wiped his mouth on the end of his plaid shirt, frowning down at himself after he did so. Just a few days back on the road with his dad and he'd already reverted back into a heathen. Wonderful.

Taking one last look in the mirror, the voice from his dreams echoed through his head, taunting him.

 _"He'll tell John soon enough, and then John will find out that he's down yet another Winchester."_

What did that mean? Down another Winchester? As far as Sam knew, it was just him, Dean, and their father as the last of their bloodline, unless their father had been tight lipped about his side of the family, which wouldn't really surprise him. But why would John be upset about being down another Winchester when the person who had been killed was apparently a Milligan?

He wanted to analyze the dream, tear it apart at the seams and figure out what exactly his dreams were trying to tell him, but he knew that in order to do that in a timely manner with all the information, he'd have to admit to his father and Bobby that he had an awful habit of dreaming of the future. That wouldn't go over well with John, but Sam knew that he couldn't keep this a secret forever, especially if these dreams were trying to point him in the right direction when it came to the YED and Dean. Steeling himself for the storm that was sure to come, Sam exited the bathroom. His father didn't give him a chance to speak, ushering him out the door and towards Bobby's motel room.

Bobby was waiting for them, his books and piles of research stacked on the tables and wobbling precariously on the lopsided motel beds. "It's about time you two showed up," he said, eyes shifting to Sam to take a closer look at him before turning back to John. "I'm guessing you showed him the video?"

"There has to be another explanation," Sam insisted, although he knew deep down that there wasn't. Bobby looked at him, his eyes filled with pity. "Dean would never try to hurt me of his own free will. You know that. He's being controlled, he's-"

"The Dean we know is gone, Sam," John cut him off. "Whatever is in his body now, that's not him. We have to put him down like we would any other monster."

"Wait a minute," Bobby barked. "We are not going to kill Dean!"

"From the looks of it, he's already dead!" John argued. "We just need to cut our losses and-"

"Of course," Sam murmured. "I don't know why I expected anything different from you. You always shoot first and ask questions later. You don't even want to consider that there might be a way that we can save Dean! There is no way on Earth that he's stuck the way he is. There is a way to reverse everything."

"I get that you're still getting over what happened in Palo Alto," John said, ignoring the rage on Sam's face. "But we can't sit around and wish for a miracle. We need to take care of this mess the only way we know how."

"Then I guess this is where we part, John," Bobby sighed. "You may be eager to cut your losses and forget everything that's happening, but I can't do that. I won't give up on Dean, not when there is even a tiny chance that we can bring him back to us, that we can save him. I know that it seems like a long shot, like we're grasping at straws here, but we can't just roll over and show our bellies! That's what the yellow eyed bastard wants! He wants us to give up, wants us to abandon all hope in Dean. If we give up on Dean now without going after all leads, all possibilities of reversing whatever was done to him, then the YED's won. Is that what you want?"

John clenched his jaw and looked away, hands balled into fists. No, that wasn't what he wanted. But he couldn't afford to be hopeful right now, not with that YED all over what was left of his first born. That bastard had taken Mary, and now it had Dean. He couldn't handle the emotional onslaught that would happen if he let himself believe, even for a second, that Dean could be saved, only to find out that he was doomed forever. It was bad enough trying to get through the day with Mary's absence hanging over his head. Now he had Dean to mourn, too.

"You know that's not what I want," John said quietly. "But there's no use in giving ourselves false hope. These delusions are only going to get us killed. Sometimes...sometimes," John took a deep breath, "you just have to accept that you lost and move on, no matter how hard it is. Even if it kills you."

"Dad," Sam pleaded. "This is tearing me apart, just like it is to you. But we have to at least try, Dad! If we don't try now, and then find out later that there was a way we could have saved Dean, then we will never forgive ourselves. I don't want to hope too much and find out that it was just a ruse, but I don't want to give up hope either. We just," he threw a glance at Bobby, who nodded at him to continue. "We just need to tie up any loose ends. So any leads, any possibilities that could help us kill the demon and save Dean, we have to at least look into it. Ignoring even the most ridiculous lead could be our downfall."

Bobby and Sam stared expectantly at the oldest Winchester, waiting with baited breath for his response. The distance sounds of cars speeding down the highway filtered through the thin motel walls, horns blaring and tires squealing against the asphalt. Bobby and Sam were on the same side. Whether John agreed or not, they weren't going to stop until they'd exhausted every possibility, every opportunity. It would kill them inside to face rejections and false leads, but it would kill them even more if they turned their backs on Dean without even putting forth their best effort. Sam had turned his back on Dean a long time ago, and now he had the chance to maybe make things right, to fix their relationship that had been torn to shreds when Sam got on that bus to California.

"We multitask," John finally grunted. Sam inhaled sharply. "We look for ways to take down the demon and save Dean. The second, and I mean the fucking second, we get any information that tells us that Dean is too far gone, we let it go and move on. Understood?"

"Understood," Sam breathed, smiling for what felt like the first time in months, his face muscles straining at the new position.

"You don't tell me what to do," Bobby muttered. "But...understood."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

Heaven was in chaos. Or, more specifically, the angels were panicking, running around on the orders of their superiors, growing increasingly desperate as they faced failure after failure with the tasks they were given. They had been trying to keep the disorder quiet, unwilling to catch the attention of Michael, who would surely lash out for their mistakes.

"How could this have happened?" Uriel demanded of Zachariah. The smaller seraphs flew here and there, disappearing from Heaven in a flutter of wings and then returning seconds later to report yet again that, no, Dean Winchester could not be found, his soul lost from them.

"Believe me, I am as upset as you are," Zachariah seethed. "When Castiel reported to me that Dean had disappeared, I had assumed that Castiel had simply not done a good enough job. It didn't feel right, though, so I had other angels look into it. Dean Winchester has not been seen on Earth for quite some time."

"Is he in Hell, then?"

"No," Zachariah sighed heavily. "My contacts in Hell swear they've never even seen Dean, had no idea that he was missing. They assumed that we'd be watching over him until the time came. They are...displeased that we do not seem to be able to hold up our end."

Uriel hissed in displeasure, cutting his eyes at a lowly seraph that had been staring. The poor angel scurried off, frightened. This was not good. The apocalypse was supposed to go off without any major hitches, and for such a major player in the game to disappear off the face of the Earth...

"And what of the other Winchester? Lucifer's vessel?" Uriel asked.

Zachariah frowned. "Castiel reported to me that Sam Winchester left Palo Alto with John Winchester just a few days ago. Strange, because he was supposed to have left California years ago."

The only excuse Zachariah could come up with was that as a higher being, time passed differently for him. While on Earth, a few years might seem like a long time, to him, it was seemed like days. However, no matter how differently time passed, the chaos now was a sign of impending consequences. The entire apocalypse depended on certain events happening, on certain people living and certain people dying, and if Sam Winchester was only just now leaving Palo Alto, that indicated that someone had been tampering with things they should most definitely not my tampering with.

"Is there anyway to get the apocalypse back on track?" Uriel murmured quietly, wings arched and fluttering, prepared to take flight.

"It is...difficult to determine how much damage has been done," Zachariah admitted. "Our entire plan revolved around Dean and Sam Winchester becoming codependent once more as they began hunting again, with Sam falling into Azazel's hands and with Dean making the deal that would condemn his soul to hell. Our sources say that Sam hasn't been in contact with Dean for years, meaning that John Winchester never went off the grid, meaning that Dean never went to Sam and asked for help in locating their father. While many of the events that lead to the apocalypse may seem small and insignificant to the grand scheme of things, that is unfortunately not the case. Our arrogance led to us not keeping track of the two most important pieces on the board, and with Michael's vessel seemingly vanishing into thin air, I am afraid we do not have good news to report to him."

Uriel's many faces twisted in displeasure at the thought of Michael's rage. He and many other angels had assured Michael that nothing would derail his destiny to fight his brother, Lucifer, and to have to report that his vessel, Dean Winchester, was gone without a trace, was not something Uriel was looking forward to. Majority of Heaven was banking on Michael's victory, however, that victory would never come to fruition if Michael did not have a way to come to Earth to face his fallen brother, the North Star.

With a beat of his wings, Uriel replied, "The main vessels are of utmost importance, and so we continue the search and send out scouts to determine what Lucifer's vessel is up to. In the mean time, I suggest we start finding other blood members of the Winchester and Campbell family. If the main vessels are unavailable, perhaps Michael's wrath can be lessened if we provide him with an alternative."

He vanished, leaving Zachariah standing among the clouds.

* * *

John's truck thundered down the road, Bobby's truck following closely behind. Sam had opted to ride with Bobby, not feeling confident that he could sit in the car with his father without starting a fight he didn't have the energy to finish. Riding in the car with Bobby was a pleasant change of scenery; there wasn't any blaring rock music battering against his eardrums, and Bobby was just as content as Sam to spend the trip in amicable silence.

But just because they didn't talk didn't mean that Sam didn't have a million thoughts running through his mind.

His head rested against the side of the car, the window rolled down just a bit so that the sharp wind would hit him in the eyes, keeping him away. After his last dream, he was reluctant to allow himself to fall asleep. He kept trying to form theories on ways to save Dean and ways to figure out what the YED wanted with him and his brother, but his mind kept twisting and turning back to the existence of what appeared to be another Winchester. He and Dean had never met any of John's side of the family, at least not that they could remember. And it was the same with their mother's side. And if there was more of their family out there, what would it matter to John if they died? It isn't like John was a family man, Sam quietly snorted to himself. The way the man treated his two sons was a clear indication that he had better things to do than be a good father.

He wanted to just forget that the dream had even happened, but every time he thought about it, his stomach twisted painfully and his heart began to pound. His body was trying to tell him something, as was his mind, and Sam knew that he couldn't ignore the signs forever. Ignoring the foreshadowing had led to the death of his wife and children. But how to mention it to his father? John saw the world in black and white. Either you were a monster that deserved to die, or you were human. There wasn't a grey area, not for him, and he wouldn't react well to Sam revealing that he had seemingly prophetic dreams. Bobby wouldn't let John kill him, but Sam couldn't be too sure. His father always managed to get his way, at least until he managed to escape to college. But really, he should have known better. Six years of radio silence from his father and brother should have been a clear indication that it was just the calm before the storm. He was a Winchester; there's no way he should have expected to be left alone for that long and not have something incredibly tragic and traumatizing happen.

Making his decision, he turned his head to face Bobby and asked, "Hey, do you know anyone with the last name of Milligan?"

"Milligan?" Bobby frowned. "Doesn't sound familiar. Why?"

"This is going to sound crazy," Sam said slowly. "But I've been having...dreams."

"You're a little too old to get the talk, Sam," Bobby grumbled. "I figured that you'd know your way around by now-"

"Jesus, no," Sam cut him off. "Not those kind of dreams!"

"Then what the hell are you talking about?"

Sam took a deep breath. "A few months ago, I had dreams of Jess and Emily dying, on the ceiling of our apartment. And then it came true."

Bobby swerved the car onto the shoulder of the road and stomped on the break. John's truck continued speeding down the highway, not yet noticing that it was no longer being followed. "Sam, what happened to Sam and Jess wasn't your fault," Bobby replied firmly. "You don't have to make up these things to-"

"I'm not making it up!" Sam snapped. "For _months_ , I had dreams of Jess and Emily dying, and I ignored it because I didn't want to believe it was real. And then they died in the exact same way as my dreams. And it wasn't just Jess and Emily, Bobby, that I was dreaming about. There was someone else there when they died, two other people. And they keep popping up every time I close my eyes. And last night, I dreamed about them killing someone named Adam, and how apparently my dad would be upset to have lost another Winchester." Bobby stared at him, mouth agape. "I know this isn't normal, okay, but I had to tell someone about this. It feels like I'm going insane, and I want the dreams to stop but I don't know why they started in the first place."

Sam's rant left him breathless. He slumped back against the seat, exhausted and content. The dreams, or the nightmares as they were more bad than good, were draining him, and it felt amazing to finally let someone else know what was going on. Maybe he really was going insane, and maybe his brain was trying to help him cope by creating some crazy, supernatural plot that revolved around his feelings of guilt that came from not going after Dean and not being open with Jess while they were still around.

Every second he spent on the road was healing him and also hurting him. He hated that he had run away from his home, hadn't even put effort into the funerals of his wife and children, but he couldn't do it. Even if he had stayed there, he would have been an empty shell, going days without bathing and eating. If not for his father, Sam knew that he would probably still be laying on the motel bed in a state of extreme disorientation, uncaring of the world around him and unaffected by anything other than his own grief. Leaving Palo Alto filled him with purpose, filled him with an energy that he hadn't had in a long time. However, he knew that once he'd finally gotten his revenge on the YED, he had nothing to do with himself afterwards. Sam didn't think that he'd ever be able to go back to Palo Alto, or go back to his job at the law firm. He left hunting to be a lawyer, and now he's leaving his lawyer days behind to dive head first back into hunting. There wouldn't be a second chance to get out after this. He was in it until death.

"Sam," Bobby said slowly, as if Sam were a dangerous animal that was seconds away from lunging for the jugular, "Are you sure this isn't just your head screwing with you?" At Sam's nod, Bobby heaved a sigh. "Then we'll research it. I believe that you aren't insane, but these dreams couldn't have just come out of nowhere. Maybe a witch has been screwing with your for a while, must've been working for the YED."

"Then they'd have to have been undercover for decades then, Bobby," Sam groaned, letting his head flop back against the headrest, his hair brushing against his cheeks in their unkempt state. "This probably will make this entire thing sound worse, but...I've been having dreams like this since I was a kid, Bobby, I just never said anything because Dean was always there to make me forget and we both agreed that Dad shouldn't know."

"What the actual fuck, Sam!" Bobby yelled. "You've been dreaming the future since you were a kid and you never thought to mention it!"

"Oh, yeah, and get my head blown off by the Righteous John Winchester?" Sam scoffed. "Give me a break! Dean and I were freaked out as it was, but they stopped when I hit the seventh grade, and so we never saw the need to bring it back up! You have to understand Bobby, back then, the dreams were a lot worse to me physically. I had bloody noses, splitting headaches, and for years these episodes went on, and Dad never gave a single fuck! He was just convinced that I was being a little bitch about having to run laps in a hundred degree heat. Pardon me, and Dean, for coming to the realization that John Winchester didn't give a shit about our health."

"And how do you expect we keep this from him, anyways?" Bobby demanded. "If you're dreaming about another Winchester, about a person in your family, your father is our best bet in finding out who the hell Adam is, and how he's involved in all of this. Despite his fault, and he has a lot of them, your Dad is a damn good hunter. Arrogant, stubborn, and annoying as hell, but good at what he does. Whatever's going on in your head, whoever has been sending these visions to you, he could help decipher them. I know my way around the lore, but it's been a while since I've been on the field, and although I've been a hunter longer than your dad, I have to admit that John has a more hands on approach to the supernatural, so there is a chance that he knows something that I haven't yet discovered."

"I know," the young Winchester muttered. "I know I'll have to tell him, but I just don't know how to! Every time I think about telling him, every time I think about sharing secrets, I just flashback to all the times he left Dean and I alone for weeks without food or money while he went off to do God knows what; to how he treated us like objects instead of children with physical, emotional, and mental limits; to how he swore we could talk to him about anything but then he'd turn around and tear us a new one of we dared not be the perfect robots he wanted us to be. A part of me is feeling a very strong sense of vindictive justice at keeping this from him. It's just so rare to have something over that man, and even now, with everything that's happened, I can't erase that feeling of knowing something that he doesn't.

"And with Jess and Emily," Sam's jaw clenched. "I'm so angry with Dad, but grateful, too, because I wanted to be there for their funerals, but I do not think that I could take it, and maybe he knew that, maybe he remembered what it was like when he lost Mom, but deep inside it doesn't feel like he had my best interests at heart. I want to believe that he was trying to help me by taking me away from Palo Alto and bringing me back into hunting, but I can't shake the feeling that he did that for himself, because he was lonely without Dean at his heels and he needed a soldier at his beck and call again to feel comfortable. The YED was one thing, Bobby, but Dean being involved in this, too? Jesus Christ, it's like no one in this family gets a break! And Dad was prepared to cut his losses without a second thought! He's always been quick to cut ties and burn bridges with other people, but heaven forbid someone does that to him! It's like he doesn't even care that Dean is in the villainous clutches of that yellow eyed bastard, he's just upset because Dean was "careless". It's like he can't stop being a hunter for one god damned second and be a father."

"You don't think I know that?" Bobby agreed. "I remember when he first brought you boys to my house. It drove me crazy, Sam, to see how he treated you two. You never took the brunt of it because Dean shielded you, but if it was so awful living with him from your perspective, can you imagine what it was like for Dean? That boy didn't want to be a hunter, Sam, and it killed him to have to give up what he wanted to take care of you. That isn't to say that he didn't love you, but just because he loved you didn't mean that he didn't want anything for himself. Dean was more of a father to you than John ever was; that boy raised you, taught you how to talk, walk, and read. John was physically there for those milestones, but never emotionally. Never mentally. Ever since his wife died, you and Dean took the back burner, and no matter how much pain he was in, that wasn't okay. I called him out on his shit several times, Sam, several times! But he wouldn't hear it!

"Always went off on a rant about how he knew what was best for you two, and he didn't like being told that he wasn't even around enough to know what was best for your two. I tried to give you and Dean a good time whenever you came to stay with me. Went out and got good food to cook, bought some baseballs to play catch, even rented movies. I tried to give you and your brother something of a childhood, but it seemed like John always destroyed whatever progress I had made. And then there was the day when he took you away for good." Bobby shook his head, thinking back on the memory that ended with him holding his shot gun as John Winchester and his sons sped away.

"You did the best that you could," Sam whispered. "I know you did. But Dad...you wanted Dean and I to have a life that didn't revolve around hunting. Dad didn't want that for us, he looked down on me every time I demanded normal. If he was willing to kick me out of the family over a Stanford scholarship, can you imagine what he'd do once he finds out I have some twisted version of premonition? It's hard enough trying to function with everything that's happened in the past few days, I don't need to stress myself out even more by constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure he's not pointing a gun at me."

"Then you won't tell him," Bobby decided. Sam opened his mouth to protest by the older man continued, "I will tell him. I don't know how I'm going to broach the topic, but soon, I will tell him. I have to catch him in a good mood, preferably when he hasn't had anything to drink or doesn't have a gun on him."

"Thank you, Bobby." Sam's love for Bobby increased tenfold. Bobby Singer was always looking out for people, even when they let him down.

"Don't mention it," Bobby grumbled. "In the mean time, can you keep it together?"

"I'll give it my best shot."

The moment was over as the amicable silence was interrupted by the loud rumbling of a truck. Looking up, Sam could see his father's truck coming back around the bend. He didn't have to see his father's face to know that he was pissed. John had probably gone a few miles without realizing that they weren't behind him. The truck made a sharp turn and pulled onto the shoulder in front of Bobby's truck, John hopping out.

"What the hell are you two doing?" John snapped.

"We had a bit of car troubles," Bobby replied after rolling the window down. "We were just about to get back on the road."

John stared at the both of them, clearly suspicious. Sam kept his face blank.

"Well, hurry it up," John groused. "We don't have all day."

* * *

Back on the road, John found himself throwing glances up at the rearview mirror to make sure Bobby and Sam were behind him. He could admit to himself that earlier, when he'd looked up and they were gone, he'd gone into a panic, his first thought was that the YED had taken them out right from under his nose. He had swerved back around, nearly sending himself careening off the road, and had already taken his spare gun out of the glove compartment.

Finding Bobby and Sam just chilling on the side of the road sent alarms off in his head, and their weak excuse made him even more tense. When he had come back around the bend, even from a distance he could see that whatever they were talking about, it was serious, something deep. When he stared at them questioningly, it bothered him that they didn't seem bothered to share whatever they were so deeply discussing.

He wanted to pester them, to pry and force them to share whatever secrets they thought he didn't deserve to know, but he wasn't sure he would remain sane after another tear down session from Bobby. That old grouch was capable of holding a grudge, something John learned the hard way, with his head nearly blown off as a consequence of his actions. It didn't matter if he and Bobby were after the same thing on this little mission of theirs; Bobby wouldn't hesitant to tear him a new one and make him hate himself even more than he already did. It was something that John both admired and hated about the older man, his bluntness and knowing gazes, force-feeding people the truth whether they wanted it or not.

Sighing, John reached a hand down to rummage through a small box of cassette tapes only to realize that he didn't have the tapes anymore, they were in the Impala, which he had left with Dean.

Speaking of Dean, John narrowed his eyes as he looked back up through the rearview window to stare at Bobby. He hadn't had the chance to call the man on it, but ever since they had linked up at the motel, John had an inkling that Bobby had more information on Dean disappearance. To be fair, John could admit that he hadn't been paying as much attention as he should to his eldest son, but that was in the past. Bobby shouldn't continue to hold that against him, not if they wanted to successfully work together to figure out what happened to Dean and how he could be saved.

And _could_ he be saved? When Sam had suggested it, he wanted to shake his head at the foolishness. Sam had always been the overly optimistic one, always looking for light in an area where there was nothing but darkness. John hadn't wanted to say it to Sam's face, but he believed that Sam's determination to save Dean stemmed from his guilt over what happened to Jessica and Emily. It was tragic, John acknowledged, but that pain, that rage? It made the motivation and drive in a man stronger. Sam would find that when his body felt like it was on the verge of collapse, all he'd have to do is look back on his wife and child's dead body, and he'd be instantly rejuvenated, ready for rounds two, three, and four.

 _But_ , John thought with a wince. _Sam was..._ not weak. No, that wasn't the proper word. He certainly wasn't as strong as Dean, not physically, emotionally, or mentally. Sam always had something holding him back, always going on and on about living a normal life, seemingly uncaring of the dangers that were walking the planet. For as long as the boy could talk, John could spend weeks reminiscing about the years Sam spent demanding to stay at one school, pleading to be on the soccer team, screaming about how he wished he wasn't a Winchester, and yet at the same time, thinking he deserved his father's and Dean's unwavering protecting and placations.

There were times where John really thought he'd strangle the boy, whip his little neck back and forth as he shook some sense back into him. John hated always being the bad guy, hated that Sam didn't appreciate how much his father gave up for him. John and Dean spent endless blood, sweat, and tears keeping Sam safe, keeping him fed and clothed, and that boy repaid them by complaining about everything he could possibly complain about.

When Dean was around, John realized that he rarely had to be directly involved in one of Sam's tantrums, leaving that bundle of childish emotions to his eldest son to handle. And now, John was having a hard time emotionally connecting to his son. Letting Dean do the dirty work for decades caused a rift the size of the Grand Canyon between John and Sam, and John was having difficultly trying to close that distance. It seemed like every time he tried to reach out to Sam in ways that only he knew how, Sam deflected, uninterested in his father's too late actions of fatherhood.

John had to admit that he shouldn't have let it gotten this far. That night when Sam revealed he was going to Stanford, they both said words that shouldn't have been said, and the second Sam chose a school over his family, in John's eyes, he deserved to be disowned. But now, John's stomach twisted harshly at the thought of sending Sam away again. He wouldn't admit it if asked, but ever since his sons left, he was feeling incredibly lonely. Sure, over the years he had visited his youngest son, his Adam-

And shit, that was another shit storm waiting to happen. John wanted to slam his face against the steering wheel. He had forgotten that Adam had never met Dean and Sam, and now that his family was falling apart, he was afraid that a family reunion might be coming up soon. John knew exactly how this sons would react if they caught wind of Adam. Dean would pretend that everything was okay but would become unbearably cold and distant, and perhaps even fall back into a bout of silence like he had when Mary first died. And Sam, oh boy. Sam would go on a rampage, his entire body would explode into a burning inferno of self righteousness and rage; he'd no doubt demand to know why Adam was deemed worthy of having birthday parties and living in one house while going go one school while he, Sam, lived in filthy motel rooms living off greasy diner food in threadbare clothing.

If it was just Sam that John had to worry about, he didn't think he'd be so worried. He could handle Sam. That boy may be a man now, but John was still his father and he demanded respect. The problem with this was Bobby's presence. Bobby, having never been a fan of John Winchester, would surely take the opposing side, might even convince Sam to cut ties with his father yet again as they searched for a way to save Dean and get back at the YED. Hell, Bobby and Sam might even give up the fight with the YED out of spite.

"I just need to take this one step at a time," John mumbled to himself, drumming his fingers against his steering wheel. "Tackle one problem before going on to the next one." Only that was much more easier said than done. His plans had a habit of going wildly off the rails whenever his sons were involved, and any further plans might go up in flames once Sam got his blood pumping.

Throwing another glance at Bobby's car, a furl of disappointment and hurt settled in John's chest as he watched Sam smile, the first sign of positive emotion he'd displayed for days. John tried very hard not to think about why Sam never smiled at him like that.

* * *

"Is it time to bring John's attention to this?"

Alastair arched an eyebrow at the carnage, impressed. He had only actively taught Dean for a few sessions, and for the rest he silently observed. Dean Winchester was his best student, the best he'd had in what seemed like forever. Fueled by pure rage and hate, Dean had swiftly exceeded all expectations and became quite the twisted son of a bitch. In Hell, Dean's work had been phenomenal, and it had always brought a smile to Alastair's face to see the souls so torn apart and desperate, falling apart at the seams as they tried to hold onto their humanity. On Earth, Dean's work was...unparalleled.

Adam and Kate Milligan's insides were strewn about the kitchen, a shriveled pouch that might have been a kidney laying on the floor, a foot imprint on side, indicating that Dean had stepped on it as he left. The sink, the counters, and every other available surface was covered in blood. The blood wasn't fresh, since Dean had killed them days ago, but there was so much of it that it hadn't quite managed to dry yet. There was still the occasional wet patch.

Two tables were in the middle of the kitchen, one body on each. Their eyes, having still been open when they died, were staring to decay a bit, and if one looked close enough, they could see little bugs scrambling over the bloody tables and floors, looking for something to chow down on. In their last moments, the two Milligan's had reached across the distance and grasped hands, a mother trying to comfort her dying child.

"I believe so," Azazel murmured, eyes taking in the scene. He smiled once his eyes landed on Adam. "I must say, I am quite pleased with Dean's work. He never disappoints me."

"You're lucky you got your claws in him when you did," Alastair agreed. "Otherwise, he might not have been so easy to manipulate."

"Of course, I do have Ruby to thank for Dean joining our little family. Without her intel, we probably would have never been able to track him and set him up in the woods."

"It does seem like poetic justice, doesn't it?" Alastair smiled. "You killed Mary in Lawerence, Kansas, and you did the same to Dean." He trailed his index finger along Kate Milligan's throat and sucked the blood off, savoring the taste. "And what will you do if Dean figures out it was you who damned him to hell?"

"He'll do nothing except be grateful to me for saving him," Azazel promised. "After all, Dean never would have been to easy to take care of if John and Sam Winchester stopped thinking about themselves for once." Turning to face the younger demon, he continued, "Possess one of the neighbors and get them over here, then disappear. The police will assume it was the work of a serial killer no doubt and put the report on the news. John will catch wind of it soon. Seeing as how Sammy isn't being forthcoming about his visions, we'll have to tell John about his son's demise ourselves."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

 **Author's Note:** This chapter and the next two that follow will serve as brief flashbacks of Dean's life after his father and Sam left.

* * *

A storm had been brewing inside of Sam all day. Actually, for several days now. His face may have been carefully neutral, and his voice never wavered, but Dean could see the tension in his body, the way he looked like he was ready to take off running and never stop. Despite noticing the behavior in his little brother, Dean did nothing except pray that their father didn't take notice as well. Whenever Sam got into one of his moods, he and their father would get into it, the argument always coming full circle when Sam would demand, "Why can't we just be normal?"

Dean hated it when they fought, and he hated himself even more for not vocally agreeing with Sam. Contrary to popular belief, Dean was not happy that his entire life had revolved around hunting things that went bump in the night. Hunting was from sometimes - like when he could pretend to be a FBI agent - but at the end of the day, it wasn't the life he would have chosen for himself, and it certainly wasn't a life he would have chosen for his brother. No matter how much their dad tried to deny it, anyone could see that the lack of consistency had taken a toll on Sammy.

However, despite his many protests against many of his father's actions, he kept his mouth shut. He was the only one in the family that kept the peace.

They had just finished up a case and were lazing around their motel room waiting for a new one to pop up. Very rarely did they have down time, and Dean hoped things stayed calm for a couple of days, maybe even a week. he could maybe take Sam to the fair or something, cheer him up a bit and take his mind off their shitty life for a while.

The last thing Dean needed was Sam pulling another Flagstaff.

He shuddered at the memory.

He never told Sam, but John had beat the shit out of him that night. Dean compartmentalized it and ignored the trauma that followed for many years after. But whenever Sam complained, Dean's insides twisted angrily as how much he suffered and sacrificed for his little brother without so much as a thank you.

"Something on your mind, Sammy?" Dean asked, turning the TV down and turning from where he sat on the couch. Sam sat at the rickety table in the corner, lazily dragging the eraser of his pencil across the pages of whatever book he was reading.

"No," Sam answered curtly.

"Sammy," Dean said, grinning when Sam scowled at the nickname. "Come on, man, just tell me."

"It's nothing," Sam insisted, shoving away from the table. "Don't worry about it."

The last four words of that sentence should have alerted Dean to what was to come; they provided a horrible sense of foreboding. He was proven right when, just two hours later, their Dad stomped into the room, the motel door slamming shut behind him. Immediately, Dean turns the TV off and takes the bag his father was holding out to him.

Without even having to ask, Dean knows that it's his duty to clean the guns and knives and have then neatly stored back in the bag before the night is over. he cleans off the table and gets to work. From the corner of his eye he watches his father snag a beer from the mini fridge and plop on the couch, journal on the coffee table in front of him, scribbling away.

There's a comfortable silence that Dean gets to enjoy before shit hits the fan. Just the scratching of a pen on paper, the click of guns as Dean makes sure to get into every crevice, just like how he was taught. The moment is shattered when Sam exits his room. Dean doesn't know how he knows this, but the second Sam stepped into his view with a piece of paper in his hands, he gets the overwhelming urge to either throw up or haul ass away from there.

He watches Sam work up the courage to interrupt their Dad. usually, they try to avoid John whenever he's back from a hunt, at least for a couple of hours, maybe a day or two. His temper flares when he's nagged merely seconds after he walks through the door. Dean tries to catch Sam's eye, tries to tell him _please_ , for the _love of God_ , whatever you're doing, don't do it _now_ -

"Dad?"

John grunts a reply, not even looking up from his journal as he takes a heavy swig of beer.

Sam moves so that he's right in front of John, blocking his light, thus gaining John's attention. John squints up at him. "What the hell are you doing, Sam?"

"I wanted to show you this."

Sam hands over a very official looking piece of paper, and from where he's sitting, Dean can see a very prestigious looking seal on it. His little brother looks proud, almost smug, and Dean finds his hands slowing, setting down the gun on the table, heart picking up speed.

John reads over the paper, and from the way his entire body becomes tight, Dean knows that hell on Earth is about to begin.

"What is this?" John asks quietly, although it's obvious that he already knows.

"I applied to college," Sam says, and shit, that knocks the air right out of Dean's lungs. Sam continues on, either blissfully unaware or ignoring John's dangerous body language. "I picked up jobs here and there and paid for the placement tests and application fee. It's a full ride, Dad! I got a full ride to Stanford!"

"So what the hell are you showing me this for?" John demands. This knocks the smile right off Sam's face. Dean counts to ten in his head. "Just to prove that you could do it? That was a waste of money, Sam." John tosses the letter across the table, and it lands at Sam's feet.

Sam stands there, flabbergasted, before slowly crouching to retrieve his acceptance letter. Before, he had a smile on his face. Now? he looks like he could spit fire.

"I'm going."

 _Please_ , Dean wants to beg. _Please, please, **please**. Why didn't you tell me? Why do you want to leave us? Leave **me**?_

John's head lifts up again, and even though Dean can't see the expression on his father's face, the way he slams his journal closed is enough.

" _What_ did you just say?"

"I _said_ ," Sam sneers. "I'm _going_. I'm going to college. One would think that you'd be happy for me."

"You're not going anywhere." Their Dad is standing now, surging forward to grab a handful of Sam's t-shirt. "You hear me? I have had it with your bullshit, and now I find out that you've been running around, wasting my money -"

" _Your_ money?" Sam scoffs, shoving his father off with more force that Dean and clearly John had expected; John nearly gets knocked off his feet by the blow. "I didn't need your money, and even if I did, it's not like you have any! I don't need you!"

The fight that follows is the loudest, most terrifying thing Dean has ever experience.

The screaming; the roaring; the coffee table being broken as John gets physical; Dean's cries being ignored as he tugs his raging father off his bloody little brother; Dean trying to reason with Sam, trying to talk to him over John's hateful words; Sam's cutting remarks, his eagerness to get away, far, far away. Den tries to be in two places at once: protecting Sam from his Dad and protecting his Dad from Sam. John swings, and it collides with Dean's jaw. He's thrown to the side, head colliding with the edge of the windowsill. Pain flares, his vision blurs, and he slumps against the wall, gasping for air. Something warm and wet slides down the side of his face.

His pleading cries are drowned out. He can do nothing but watch as his father and Sam clash. The last thing he sees before the world fades to black is John pointing at the door with a busted lip and bloody nose, and Sam, sporting several bruises and a bloody mouth, disappearing into his room and storming out of the motel, duffle bag in hand.

* * *

When Dean wakes up, his father is gone.

His hands clenched reflexively, searching for a gun that wasn't there. His head throbbed, and he groaned, reaching a hand out to feel for a solid surface that he could use to propel himself upward. Hand splayed on the wall, he worked himself up, nearly slipping as his other hand grappled at the damp windowsill. Reaching a hand up, Dean winched as he felt the gash on the side of his head.

Stumbling to the bathroom, Dean took note of how quiet it was. Catching himself on the threshold of the bathroom door, he looked back over the room. His father was gone. Craning his head to see into of the bedrooms, he saw that his father's room was clean. The bed was made and his bag was nowhere to be seen. Even the guns that had been taken apart earlier on the table were gone. Dread may have filled Dean's stomach, but he could't tell the difference between that and the nausea that was coursing through him as a result of his head wound.

He had to prioritize. Despite the heavy feeling in his chest at being seemingly abandoned, he knew he had to go to a hospital. Head wounds fo any kind were serious, and Dean didn't want to risk anything.

Dean cleaned himself up as best as he could with his vision blurring every few minutes. He had nearly passed out when he tugged his shirt over his head and the hem of it had brushed against the cut. Somehow, he even found the strength to at least try to brush his teeth. He may not be minty fresh but at least he couldn't smell the garlic from the bread he had eaten last night.

Staggering out of the bathroom, Dean gathered his things as fast as he could, clothes stuffed into a duffle bag and knife tucked into a pocket in his leather jacket. Shrugging the jacket on, Dean managed to throw a few twenties down on the table as an apology for the damage and make it to the Impala without falling down. He shouldn't be driving, he was reminded as his eyes lost focus for a solid twelve seconds, but he had no other way to get to the hospital. He was all alone.

 _No,_ he thought angrily. _Don't think about that. Not now. Not yet_.

But as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, he couldn't escape the memories of the fight between his father and brother, hateful words that had so easily passed Sam's lips.

 _"Why would I stay here? So I can be a worthless soldier who can't even think for himself?"_

 _"You want me to be like Dean? Dean, who dropped out of high school? Dean, who's only good at shooting a gun?"_

How could Sam say those things? How could he so easily turn his back on his family, removing himself from the Winchesters without an ounce of hesitation? How could he find it within himself to tear Dean down, after everything they'd been through, after everything Dean had done for him?

Dean's vision blurred and the car swerved, nearly careening into the metal road railings before he managed to catch himself, jerking the Impala back in the lane and forcing his eyes wide open. The muscles in his neck and upper shoulders were stiff, and ever time he turned the wheel of the car, pain flared up.

 _Just a little more,_ Dean told himself. _Just a little farther._

Slinking into the hospital parking lot was easy, it was the parking that was hard. He just decided, fuck it, and sloppily pulled into a parking space, and sank out of the car, nearly falling to the left in his attempts to remained balanced.

He could see the entrance for the hospital, just a few feet away, so damn close, but then suddenly it wasn't close. His vision tunneled, and now the hospital looked like it was miles away. Dean slammed the door to his car closed and dragged one foot forward after the other. Cars flew past him, birds littered the ground, and yet he couldn't hear any of it clearly. It was like someone had turned the volume down really low, not yet on mute, but damn near close.

Still, he trudged onwards, mouth clamped shut to stop the vomit from escaping.

Making it inside the hospital was one of Dean's greatest accomplishments. What happened next wasn't so great.

The receptionist, taking in his bleeding head and haggard appearance, and the way he couldn't even stand up straight, had moved forward to help him, and before she could even ask Dean what was wrong, he dropped in a dead faint.

* * *

For the second time that day, Dean woke alone.

The nausea and blurred vision wasn't as bad as before, and Dean gingerly rolled his neck to test out the muscles. Finding the stiffness gone, he looks to his left and sees a window. Weak rays of sunlight streamed through the glass. He could see the sun was beginning to set, the sky turning a gorgeous pink, the clouds swirling together and shifting slowly away from each other.

Letting his head rest against the pillow, he took in his surroundings. The room was small, with only a bed and a two seater couch on the opposite wall as furniture. Machines beeped quietly to his right, and back on his left was the IV drip, hooked up to his left arm. The only other sound in the room was the rattling of the air conditioner that sat under the window.

Usually, he would have ripped the IV out by now, but he didn't have the motivation. He was trained to never let himself sit in a hospital for too long, and he'd gotten good at sweet talking the doctors into letting him, a clearly gravely injured man, out into the world. But now? He just wanted to lay on the hospital bed and burrow under the scratchy white sheets for a few years, take a breather. Maybe if he asked the docs to put him in a medically induced coma, he could escape the events of yesterday.

"Good evening."

A woman in a white lab coat walked in with a clipboard, smiling gently at him. Her name tag told Dean that her name was Dr. Jacobs. He didn't respond, and instead watched her check the readings on the machine. Her pen scribbled against the paper. She was beautiful, the light of the sunset casting a beautiful glow over her dark skin. Her thick hair was pulled back into two braids, with the ends hanging freely past her shoulders.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"How about you tell me yours, beautiful."

She laughed, chocolate eyes lighting up. "My name is Michelle. You're surprisingly smooth for a man with a head wound."

"Dean," he said. "Dean Winchester."

He ahd been told that he should never use his real last name at a hospital unless absolutely necessary. "Dean Winchester" was a lot easier to trace than "Dean Michaels" or "Dean Parker". But it was his dad that had told him that, and where was his dad now? Not here, not at Dean's side. Never at Dean's side.

"Well, Mr. Wincehster-"

"Dean," he interrupted. "Call me Dean."

"Dean," Michelle smiled. "You had a pretty nasty cut to the head. Luckily for you, it wasn't inflamed or infected, but we still want to give you some antibiotics to make sure nothing pops up while it heals. The cut wasn't too deep, so we didn't have to give you any stitches. It's better for the wound to heal from the inside out, anyways. No signs of a concussion, although we do want you to stay a bit longer for observation-"

"Can't do that," Dean said. "I have to get out of here today."

"Dean, I cannot in good conscious let you check out of the hospital just yet, especially not when you'll be behind the wheel of a car."

Dean turned away and stared out the window. He was stuck here after all. He didn't know how long it would take his head to heal, and he knew she had a point; he couldn't drive like this. He'd barely made it to the hospital in one piece.

He spent the rest of the day lounging in bed, and at one point he requested a tv, which was wheeled in on a cart and placed a few feet from his bed. He flicked through the channels lazily, trying to find something that would provide a distraction to the thoughts churning in his head, but nothing worked. His mind kept returning to his father abandoning him, and the way that Sam walked out with the intention of never coming back.

Why didn't he want to come back?

There life wasn't fantastic, Dean knew that just as well as Sam did, but didn't Dean do everything he could to ensure that Sam's life wasn't completely awful? Yeah, they lived in crappy motels and didn't always have food, but Dean always kept the place clean and gave Sam as much food as he wanted before he even got one plate. And he would take Sam to the library, the movies, and even real restaurants where they could eat food that wasn't soaked in two day old grease. Dean thought he was a good big brother, but evidently he was wrong. Why else would Sam have left?

 _He just needs time to cool off,_ Dean decided firmly. _He'll call in a few days. He's older now; he can take care of himself._

Dean had to believe that, because the only alternative was that Sam really was going to Stanford and wasn't ever coming back, and he didn't want to face that reality.

* * *

It took three days for the hospital to finally discharge him. The only pleasant part about being stuck in that bed was getting to half heartedly flirt with Dr. Jacobs, but even seeing her everyday wasn't enough to wash out the taste of awful hospital cafeteria food out of his mouth. The sheets were forever scratchy, the rooms cold, and there was never anything good on tv.

He was relieved to find his baby untouched and still parked where he had left her.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Dean tossed his leather jacket into the back seat and took a deep breath, hands gripping the steering wheel. He pressed his face against the steering wheel and allowed himself to just breathe for a few minutes. Jesus fuck, what was he going to do? He had never been on his own like this before. Before, whenever his dad would go off on a hunt, he'd at least have a rough estimate as to when his dad would be back? Now? Was his dad coming back? Was anyone coming back?

What would he do? Hunt alone? He was good at hunting, but he wasn't stupid enough to think it would be safe for him to hunt solo. The Winchesters had made a name for themselves in the world of the supernatural, and John hunting solo was completely different from Dean hunting solo. Once word got out that Dean was by his lonesome, he'd be snatched up faster than a discarded ten dollar bill.

A sharp knock on his window jerked Dean out of his thoughts, and he sat up to see Dr. Jacobs standing outside his door. Her thick, curly hair was in a different style today; it was pulled up into a bun on her head, a few strands having escaped the hair tie and hanging freely, the tips brushing agains the sides of her jaw.

Even though he'd only known her for a few days, Dean would miss her. She was witty and knew her music and pop culture. He found that she shared some of his music tastes, and she even kept a few cassette tapes in her car that she played on her way to work. She didn't have any siblings, and her parents had passed a few years ago of old age. He'd even learned her favorite color, which was green. She had looked at him slyly when she said that, and Dean had flushed, knowing that she was admiring the bright color of his eyes.

"You weren't going to say goodbye?" she asked with a smile. "I expected better of my favorite patient."

Dean cracked a smile, trying not to let his tiredness show. "I didn't want you to miss me too much. Sometimes it's better to have a clean break."

Dr. Jacobs bit her lip, looking over her shoulder at the hospital briefly before meeting his eyes again. "I didn't tell you this before, but I think it's something you should know before you decide anything."

"What are you talking about?"

"When you were sleeping the first day you got here, we went through your pockets and found your cell phone. We called your father and someone named Sam. Your dad never answered and Sam...made it very clear he didn't want anything to do with you."

Dean clenched his jaw and stared determinedly ahead, fighting back the tears.

"I know this isn't my place," she whispered. "But I think it's okay if you wanted to take some time to yourself. Even when I left the voicemail to your father and Sam that you were in the hospital, there was no response. I don't mean to be cruel, but I don't think those people care for you, Dean, and you deserve better than that."

"You're right," Dean snarled. "It isn't your place."

He shoved the keys into the ignition and turned it, revving the engine and putting the car into reverse so he could back out of the parking space. A soft hand on his stopped him.

"Take my card," she insisted, pressing a business card into his left hand. On the back I put my personal cell. If you ever need anything, you ever want to talk...I'll be here."

She stepped back from the window, and Dean drove away so fast his tires squealed against the asphalt. He could see her standing in the parking lot still, getting smaller and smaller as he drove. His left hand traced the edge of the business card, tapping against the corners in frustration.

Jacobs was just being nice because she felt sorry for him as what he tried to convince himself of. It was so much easier to be mad at her instead of at his father, who couldn't even be bothered to call his son and make sure he was still alive.

"I guess he decided to just cut his losses," Dean muttered, heart broken.

Had he not been a good son? Had he not been a good soldier? Every single day he put up with his Dad's bullshit; running endless laps, sparring, cleaning guns and knives, watching Sammy, skipping meals so Sam could eat, helping Sam with his homework so their dad didn't have to, finding ways to put food on the table...

How did anyone get past a revelation like this, finding out that their own father didn't care about them?

Dean had worked so hard his entire life to make his father proud, doing everything he said when he said it without any complaint, and what had it gotten him? What was his reward for his unwavering loyalty? Nights spent cold and alone in a hospital.

 _A hospital he wouldn't have had to go to if your dad didn't knock you on your ass,_ an angry little voice hissed in the back of his head.

Desparate to escape from the thoughts in his head, Dean fumbled around and grabbed his cassette tape case, pulling a random one out and pushing it into the dashboard. He cranked the volume up and rolled the windows down. The combination of the wind rushing in his ears with the bone rattling force of the music numbed his thoughts and let him drive in peace.

* * *

A few hours later Dean had the music turned down to background noise as he cruised down the highway. He didn't even know where he was. Pulling over to the side of the road, Dean sat and watched the sky for a bit. The sun wasn't quite setting yet, but it was getting pretty low in the sky, the sky turning a pinkish orange.

Sitting in the middle of nowhere with no clear plan, Dean had never felt more lost. His whole life he had been told what to do, and now that he had actual freedom, he didn't know what to do with it? Hunting was a no go, but what else was there to do? He was a Winchester, and the Winchesters didn't have many friends in the hunting world, so there was no one he could stay with for a little bit. He kinda wished he was back in the hospital. At least there he had some company.

He thought back to what Dr. Jacobs had said to him, that his father and brother didn't care about him. He had wanted to refute her claims, but deep down he knew. He always knew. His feelings of love and loyalty weren't reciprocated. Over the years, he'd just been hiding from the truth, burying it down deep and acting as if nothing was wrong. Dean ignored the snide comments from his father no matter how much they hurt, and he ignored the disgust and annoyance on Sam's face whenever Sam got in another fight with Dad and Dean didn't speak up.

Is this what his life was? A flurry of alcohol, dirty motel rooms, and pretty white lies meant to keep him satisfied and apathetic to the way his father treated him?

He didn't know what he was supposed to do. What did he have left? All he had to his name were a plethora of fake IDs, guns, knives, and a lifetime of trauma. What was he going to do with that?

Dean opened the compartment on the passenger side and pulled out a map, opening it and flattening it as much as he could against the steering wheel. According to the map, he was somewhere in Missouri. He actually wasn't too far from Bobby's, and if he slept the night away and then drove all the way through the next day or two he could-

 _No,_ an overly cheerful voice in his head scolded. _Bobby wants nothing to do with you Winchesters. Besides, why would he want you, anyways?_

Dean nibbled at his bottom lip. He wanted to go to Bobby's more than anything right now. After all the shit that had happened, he just wanted to collapse on Bobby's dusty couch and pass out for a few days. He could see it now, waking up bleary eyed in Bobby's living room with a blanket over him and his shoes off. He'd ask Bobby about it, but the gruff man would quickly brush it off. Dean imagined himself sitting in Bobby's kitchen, inhaling pancakes and bacon - the bacon extra crispy, because that was the only way to eat it. He'd look up and meet Bobby's eyes, and everything was all right.

"You're pathetic," Dean whispered to himself, letting the map flutter onto the passenger seat and leaning his head against the steering wheel. So desperate for attention, he imagined himself as Bobby's son, as if Bobby didn't have more important things to do.

So, swinging by Bobby's house was out.

But what the hell was he supposed to do in Missouri?

* * *

It turns out he could do a lot in Missouri. So much, in fact, that Dean spent three weeks there, stationed at a surprisingly decent hotel close to the downtown area. No one knew him here, and there was no judgement. Here, he was just another tourist, walking up and down the quaint little streets in small neighborhoods and window shopping in the city. What made it even better what the organized chaos going on, which made Dean even more invisible to the public.

There were movies being filmed, plays being performed, and there were even several dramatic readings. Now, Dean wasn't much of a Shakespeare fan - hated him since the seventh grade, truthfully, because why the fuck didn't the characters just say what they meant instead of wasting precious oxygen spouting all those metaphors and underhand comments about one another's sex life - but he found himself at several dramatic readings and plays. Normally, he would run from the hills at the very name of the old playwright, but the performance of _Macbeth_ was so good that he came back the next day and the next to see it again.

He'd purchased a second hand copy of _Macbeth_ , the pages dog eared and the cover a bit busted, but as he smoothed his fingers over the soft pages, goosebumps went up his arm. This was his. It was so rare to have something that was solely his. The only other things that he had that were his property was his Baby and his favorite gun. Everything else technically was shared Winchester territory. The book wasn't new, but it was his, and that was what mattered. That night, he'd stayed up until the crack of dawn, deeply immersed in the tale. He'd woken up slumped over the table in his motel room, the book smushed under him.

Having been so focused on hunting for so long, he hadn't realized what else there was to do. Before, his life consisted of shooting bullets and throwing knives, and now, he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. There was so hunting, no being Sam's parent, and the last time he was this relaxed was when he was five, before his mom died. He didn't even have to concentrate; memories of her were easily brought forth.

Mary Winchester, blonde hair brushed away from her face and down her back. She used to wear this perfume, and whenever he hugged her he could inhale as deep as he could to memorize the scent of her; a mix of lavender and vanilla. Once, he'd even doused himself in her perfume because he wanted to smell like her, and his dad was livid because his son "smelled like a girl" for nine straight. In Dean's defense, he didn't know he shouldn't have dumped the entire bottle on his head.

 _"I think it's sweet,"_ Mary had snapped at John when Dean's lip had begun to quiver. _"He admires me. Are you saying he shouldn't?"_

That had shut his dad up real quick, and John spent the rest of dinner scrapping his fork obnoxiously across his glass plate.

That memory was how he found himself climbing in his car and heading towards the mall. It wasn't anything too large, but it did have some good department stores. He only stopped walking when he got to the perfume counter in Macy's. He couldn't remember the name of the perfume, it had been too long, and he was young the last time he'd seen it, but if the packaging didn't change, he could probably identify it. And if not by that, by the smell.

He felt out of place in the store, with the well groomed men and polished women leisurely shopping, expensive coats and handbags hanging off their frames. And there he was, in his worn jeans, thrift store shirt, and muddy hiking boots. Goodness, he hadn't been insecure about his physical appearance since his late middle school and early high school days, back when the kids would pick on him for not being trendy or hip. All he'd really had to his name then was his dad's old leather jacket, and for the most part he'd been too busy looking out for Sammy to really care about what other people said about him.

But...he could still get himself new clothes without caring about what other people said about him. He hesitantly stepped away from the perfume counter and traveled further into the store, seeking out the men's section. He'd just seen the sign when a sales associate appeared, shooting him a perky grin and asking, "Good morning, sir, did you need help with anything?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I, uh, I have to buy new clothes. The ones I have are...well, I guess you already know."

She looked him over, pursing her lips.  
"No offense, but you're right. You are in dire need of a new wardrobe. I'm Rosaleen, but you can call me Rose. Come on, I'll help you out."

Her helping him out turned out to be her calling over two other women, Lucinda and Ellie. The three of them practically pounced on him, circling him like vultures and mumbling things under their breath about what they thought he'd look good in.

"Your eyes are gorgeous," Lucinda remarks, and Dean flushes. "Shirts that make his eyes pop would be good, make him even more gorgeous, although I'm not sure the world could take it."

"I'm thinking blues, greens, and purples," Rose murmurs, inserting her hands inside Dean's leather jacket and sliding it down his shoulders, tossing it on a nearby chair. "Good god, the arms on you!"

Dean didn't know if it was possible for his face to get any hotter. What was wrong with him? He damn near made a living off flirting with women, and now that three of them were turning the tables, he didn't know what to do with himself.

"It has to be certain shades, though." Measuring tape appeared in Ellie's hands, and Dean instinctively shied away when she wrapped it around one of his thighs, her fingers dangerously close to his intimate parts. She glanced up at him, an eyebrow arched, and Dean smiled awkwardly. "For blues, I think he'd look best in navy, electric blue, or aquamarine. With greens, we should definitely use darker tones since that'll make his eyes pop more. Nothing too muted, because then that'll make him look washed out. Maybe army green?"

Lucinda nodded, grabbing another roll of measuring tape and instructing Dean to lift his arms up. "Army green and emerald, I think. And then some plum, burgundy, maybe maroon, and lavender. Short sleeves are my recommendation; gotta show off these arms. But still, with the right haircut and facial hair trim, he could rock button ups and ties, too."

Rose disappeared into the aisles of clothing, but her voice could still be heard over the catchy music playing over the speakers, which sounded a lot like Bon Jovi. "When you get his measurements for his pants, make sure you get some skinny jeans. It would be a crime to hide an ass like that."

Dean gave a squawk of protest but was herded into the fitting rooms. Lucinda pointed towards the largest one and ordered, "Take your clothes off."

 _"What?"_

"How else are you going to try stuff on?"

The next two and a half hours were spent with Dean nearly naked in front of three women who kept giving him more and more clothes to try on and take back off. He did his best to ignore Lucinda's appreciative gaze at his crotch, although he was flattered. The jeans they'd set aside for him in a cart were a mix of skinny and bootcut. The bootcut were a bit more flexible with the material, but he had to admit that the skinny jeans made him look great. The shirts they'd put in the cart varied. There were short sleeves, long sleeves, sweaters, button ups, and he'd seen Ellie throw a couple of cardigans in there, too. Dean had managed to convince them to throw some sneakers in there, and Rose agreed, but only if she got to pick them. When they'd finished running him ragged with that, they pulled out the suits. Smooth slacks and pressed shirts, shiny shoes, and handkerchiefs, things he never thought he'd own so much of.

"My god," Lucinda panted, collapsed on the floor, head resting against the basket of the metal shopping cart. The cool metal gave some comfort. "When you said he needed a new wardrobe, you weren't kidding."

"My family and I didn't have a lot of money growing up," Dean explained, pulling his old clothes back on. "Now that I have some, I thought I'd treat myself to looking like a decent human being."

"With a smile like that, you didn't really need our help," Lucinda muttered, fanning herself. "What are you going to do now?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Today's been tiring enough as it is. I was thinking of going to a barber and getting that haircut Ellie was talking about earlier."

"We should go out," Rose declared, clapping her hands together. "You can buy your clothes, drop them off wherever you're staying, and then we can treat you out to a night on the town."

"That sounds like fun," Ellie admitted. "Our commissions are gonna be through the roof thanks to Dean."

"And that's...a good thing, right?" Dean asked.

"Hell yeah!" The three women said in unison.

"Commissions boost our pay, and that means bills get paid and we can treat ourselves to something nice," Ellie explained. "Your bill will come out to at _least_ , what, four hundred? I'm eating lobster tonight!"

"I saw a Red Lobster up the street," Dean said. "We could go there?"

"And the movies!" Lucinda grinned. "You said you didn't go to those much either when you were a kid. We could see _Spider-Man_. Action, romance, sci-fi...all the best movie genres thrown into one. You'll love it."

* * *

Dean had spent his last week with Lucinda, Rose, and Ellie, and on his last day, he woke up feeling solemn. He hadn't known the three women for a long time, but he felt close to them. They listened to him, had genuine interest in him, and they'd even exchanged contact information. He didn't know if he'd ever call them. Not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't sure if he would go back into hunting. If he stayed out of that life...he could call them. He could visit. But if he got back into hunting? In that lifestyle, one wasn't allowed to have many friends.

It took him less than an hour to shower, pack, and hit the road, the impala's engine a comforting roar in his ears. Driving away from Missouri, away from the friends he'd made, he felt...not like a new man, but definitely not as broken as before. The soft cotton violet shirt Lucinda had thrown at him in the fitting room was what he wore now, along with a pair of the skinny jeans Ellie had measured him for. He had yet to wear the sneakers he'd bought, but he figured he'd have time to do that.

Where to now, though?

Dean stretched his arm behind him to reach the duffle bag in the back seat. Using one hand, he unzipped the bag and dug around until he found his cell phone. The little screen brightened when he flipped it open, and Dean eased his foot off the gas pedal so that he could go through his contacts. The recently called list showed John and Sam at the top.

Was he going to do it? Was he really going to dive back in with John? After all this?

Anger slowly bubbled to the surface. The car swerved to the left and jerked to a stop on the shoulder of the road, gravel and dust spraying up into the air and getting into Dean's eyes.

Dean still couldn't believe how easily his father abandoned him, leaving him for dead in that motel room with a visible head wound. Did he really mean that little to his father? Dean sacrificed _everything_ to appease his father, and still, in the end, he was nothing more than scum on the bottom of his dad's shoes. He dropped out of high school despite the several higher education scholarships available to him. Dean threw himself into hunting. He managed and almost always successfully stopped Sam's tantrums since he was a baby. He became a mother to his little brother because no one else was going to take care of him. It was Dean who taught Sam how to walk, talk, and read, while their father drank himself into oblivion and ignored their presence until he needed someone to yell at.

He did everything for everyone, and this was the thanks he got?

Dean wiped at his way, not even realizing he was crying until his hand came back wet.

 _This is what I've been reduced to,_ he thought bitterly. _Crying by myself on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere._

He couldn't go back. He wouldn't.

A rush of adrenaline rushed through his veins as he settled on his rebellion. No longer would he go crawling back to his father every time he was left behind. He refused to be that person anymore, and why would he be that person, when he could be literally anything else? The time spent in Missouri made him realize that he didn't need his father or Sam to matter. And, without those two holding him down, he didn't have to shape his life around them.

With a grin, Dean tossed his phone out the window onto the road in front of him and stomped on the gas, the phone crunching under his tires.

He had the whole world in front of him!

Well, maybe not the whole world; he wasn't very fond of planes. If people were meant to fly, humans would have wings. But there was still the entirety of the United States. He had been to a lot of states due to the hunting lifestyle, but he'd never really experienced everything those different states had to offer. When he had been in up north on the east coast, he hadn't been to any of the tourist sights that New York held, even though they were close enough to swing by. Sam had wanted to go to a broadway show, and Dean knew that if he and their father hustled enough pool, they definitely could have taken him. But John wouldn't hear of it. And after John's cruel rebuke towards Sam, Dean sure as hell wasn't going to tell his father that he wanted to go to the very top of the Empire State Building.

 _What's stopping you now?_ Dean asked himself.

The answer was nothing. Nothing was holding him back now. He didn't have a kid to take care of, no guns to clean, no monsters to kill. He could go to New York right now, and no one would be able to stop him. He could go anywhere. Everywhere.

 _"Jesus,"_ Dean laughed. "Is that what freedom feels like?"


End file.
